THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


DRAMAS  AND  POEMS. 


BY 

ALEXANDER    HAMILTON, 

OF    "HEUVEL." 
U.  S.  VOLUNTEERS  AND  G.  A.  R.   182. 


NEW  YORK: 
DICK    &    FITZGERALD, 

18    ANN    STREET. 


COPYRIGHT,  1887,  BY 
ALEXANDER     HAMILTON, 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


EDWARD  O.  JENKINS    SONS, 

PRINTRRS  AND  STEREOTYPERS, 

40  North  William  Street.  Nfw   York. 


PS 


DEDICATED 

BY  PERMISSION  TO 

REV.    JOHN    A.    TODD,    D.D., 

MY   FIRM   FRIEND,   THROUGH  WHOSE  FOSTERING  AID  I  AM  ENABLED 
TO    OFFER   THIS    WORK   TO    A   GENEROUS   PUBLIC. 

"CANONICUS,"  "THE  LAST  OF  THE  NARRAGANSETTS," 

IS    PRESENTED    IN    POETIC   PROSE,    AS   BEING   MORE   IN   CONSONANCE 
WITH    THE   INDIAN    STYLE   THAN    BLANK   VERSE. 

"ABecket "  and  "  Cromwell"  were  so  favorably  received  by  the  Press  and 

commended  at  the  time  in  lehalf  of  the  Sanitary  Commission,  by 

President  Lincoln,  Secretaries  Seivard,  Chase,  Stanton, 

and  Wells,  Rev.  Dr.  Bellows,  and  the  Poets  Pitz 

Green  Halleck,  Bryan!,  Morris,  Willis,  and 

Lewis  Gaylord  Clark,  that  a  reprint 

may  not  be  unacceptalle. 

THE  POEMS,  PUBLISHED  IN  THK  PRESS  OP  THE  DAY,  ARE  NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED. 

MY  ILLUSTRIOUS  GRANDSIRE  HAVING   MADE   HIS  NAME  HIS  OWN,  FOR 

ALL   TIME — I    ADOPT   THAT    OF    HER,    WHOSE   PRAISE  WAS  EVER 

THE   FIRST    SOUGHT   AND   THE   DEAREST,   "MY    MOTHER." 

ALEXANDER    HAMILTON, 

OF   "HEUVEL." 
TARKYTOWN-ON-HUDSON, 
June  i,  1887. 


904474 


CONTENTS. 


DRAMAS. 

PAGE 

CROMWELL  1 

THOMAS  A'BECKET 1 

CANONICUS 7 

POEMS. 

To  DEAR  MOTHER 57 

ON  MOTHER'S  DEATH 67 

THE  SHEPHEIID    58 

LINCOLN'S  ACT  OF  FREEDOM 59 

HAMILTON , 60 

NAPOLEON  AND  HAMILTON 62 

SONNET — "CONTENTMENT  " , 62 

SONNET— To  GRIEF 63 

To  MY  AUNT,  SUSAN  A.  GIBBES 64 

THE  BUCKWHEAT  FLOWER 64 

To  MARY  L 65 

To  Miss  ,  A  FAIR  PIANIST 68 

To  68 

To  Miss  J.  L 69 

THE  BROOK 69 

ON  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  "Si.  ANN'S"  CHURCH,  MORRIS- 

IANA 71 

THE  HUDSON  RIVER 71 

SONNET — FAITH 72 

SONNET — To  THE  OAK -  •  •  73 

To  73 

To  ELIZABETH,  OCTOBER,  1842 74 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To  ELIZABETH,  APRIL,  1843 74 

To  ELIZABETH 75 

TRUE  LOVE 75 

To  A  VERY  DEAR  FRIEND 70 

To  7(5 

To  CARE  OPPRESSING  A  DEAR  FRIEND 77 

To  E.  8.  N 77 

To  THE  ATHEIST 78 

THE  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS  WIFE 78 

To  E.  S.  N 79 

To  E.  8.  N 79 

To  A  CLOUD 80 

To  E 81 

"  ST.  PAUL'S  " 82 

To  MRS.  GEORGE  L.  SCHUYLER 82 

To  .   , . 83 

To  AN  EVER  GAY  FRIEND 84 

To  E.  S.  N 84 

FAIR  WOMAN'S  SMILES 85 

To  A  BROOK 85 

THE  MINSTREL 86 

WRITTEN  IN  A  VOLUME 87 

ON  WEIR'S  PAINTING,  WEST  POINT 88 

ON  THE  PAINTING  IN  CHANCEL  OF  WEST  POINT  CHAPEL  . .  88 

To  ELIZABETH 89 

To  ELIZABETH 89 

To  COUSIN  ELIZA  SCHUYLER 90 

To  ELIZABETH 91 

To  ELIZABETH 91 

To  E 93 

CHRISTMAS 93 

SONNET 94 

To  MY  ELDEST  SON 9o 

ANTIETAM 95 

CHANCELLORSVILLE 97 

GETTYSBURG 99 

TOE .'.'.!'.'.'..'.'.'.'.'.'.!!".'.'.'.!  101 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  RHINE. 101 

TOE.  s.  N ;  loa 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGE 

To  A  CLOUD 104 

To  E.  8.  H 104 

To  104 

SONNET 105 

To  EMMA 106 

ZENOBIA 107 

To  E 108 

THE  TROUBLED  SPIRIT'S  SONG 109 

To  ELIZABETH 110 

ON  LAURENS  HAMILTON Ill 

ON  MY  BROTHER  LAURENS Ill 

TO-NIGHT 112 

To  E 113 

DISAPPOINTMENT 113 

To  A  STORM 114 

THE  WALNUT-TREE 114 

DYING  CHILD  TO  HER  MOTHER 115 

To  MRS.  SUSAN  A.  GIBBES 116 

To 117 

To  117 

To    — 118 

To  E 118 

To  119 

To  120 

"THE  DEATH  BLAST" 121 

To  JULIA  S 122 

ON  OUR  MARY 123 

To  123 

ON  LEAVING  MY  COUNTRY  HOME  FOR  CITY  LABOR 124 

"  THE  FROLICSOME  PARSON  " 125 

ZION  MEETIN'-'OUSE 129 

To  GENERAL  GRANT 1 

SARATOGA 132 


1 


CROMWELL. 


OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

AT  length  the  world  begins  to  understand  what  an  honest,  earnest, 
God-fearing  man  Oliver  Cromwell  was. 

Royalist  writers  have  dwelt  much  upon  his  low  origin  and  the  humble 
pursuits  of  his  early  life.  He  had  no  occasion  to  blush  for  his  pedigree. 
His  father,  Robert  Cromwell,  having  married  Elizabeth  Steward,  pur 
chased  an  establishment  which  had  been  used  as  a  brewery. 

A  few  years  after  this  he  died,  leaving  a  young  family  to  the  care  of 
their  mother,  who,  by  her  skill  and  industry,  not  only  provided  funds  to 
support  her  family  in  a  respectable  station,  but  even  to  supply  her 
daughters  with  such  fortunes  as  recommended  them  to  suitable  marriages. 

This  estimable  lady,  like  Charles  the  First,  was  descended  from  Alexan 
der,  Lord  High  Steward  of  Scotland,  and  thus  they  were  cousins  in  the 
eighth  or  ninth  degree. 

Born  at  Huntington,  on  the  25th  day  of  April,  1599,  and  soon  the  only 
survivor  of  three  sons,  Oliver  became  a  great  favorite  with  his  mother, 
who,  though  a  woman  of  excellent  sense,  was  of  a  too  indulgent  temper. 

"The  love  of  truth,"  says  a  writer  of  his  day,  "will  not  permit  us  to 
extol  either  the  docility  of  his  temper  or  the  literary  triumphs  of  his 
genius — while  at  school,  he  being  described  as  'playfull  and  obstinate.'  " 

Hinchinbrooke  House,  the  seat  of  his  uncle,  Sir  Oliver  Cromwell,  was 
generally  one  of  the  resting  places  of  the  royal  family  when  on  their 
journey  from  Scotland  to  the  English  capital. 

In  the  year  1603,  King  James,  accompanied  by  his  young  son  Charles, 
then  Duke  of  York,  afterward  King  Charles  the  First,  paid  a  visit  to  Sir 
Oliver  Cromwell,  by  whom  they  were  entertained  in  the  most  sumptuous 
manner. 

Charles  and  young  Oliver  disagreed,  and  in  a  scuffle  young  Oliver 
drew  blood  from  the  royal  nose.  Sir  Oliver  reproved  his  nephew,  when, 
it  is  related,  King  James  rejoined — "  Nay,  nay,  it  will  teach  the  boy  to 
respect  the  rights  of  his  subjects." 

Milton,  the  immortal  poet,  who  knew  him  well,  does  not  ascribe  to 
him  high  accomplishments  in  literature.  Bishop  Burnet  says,  "  he  had 
no  foreign  language,  and  but  a  little  Latin." 

He  remained  but  about  half  the  required  term  at  the  University,  and 
was  then  sent  to  London  to  attend  to  the  study  of  the  law  at  Lincoln's 
Inn,  "  but  making  nothing  of  it,"  he  soon  returned  home 


OLIYER    CROMWELL. 

Sir  Philip  "Warwick,  no  uncandid  judge  of  his  manhood,  gives  a  far 
from  flattering  account  of  his  earlier  days,  but  says:  "After  a  time  ho 
became  converted,  and  declared  himself  ready  to  make  restitution  unto  any 
man  who  would  accuse  him  or  whom  he  could  accuse  himself  to  have 
wronged.  Soon  thereafter  he  joined  himself  to  men  of  his  own  temper  who 
pretended  unto  transports  and  revelations." 

Residing  at  Saint  Ives,  he  attended' the  Established  Church,  and  was 
intrusted  with  the  civil  business  of  the  parish,  but  was  not  on  good  terms 
with  the  clergy. 

Having  completed  his  twenty-first  year,  he  married  Elizabeth,  the 
daughter  of  Sir  James  Bouchier,  of-  Essex,  by  whom  he  received  a  consider 
able  addition  to  his  fortune  and  regained  the  affection  of  his  uncle,  Sir 
Oliver,  and  his  relations  the  Hampdens  and  Barringtons,  whom  he  had 
alienated  by  his  thoughtless  or  undutifnl  conduct. 

The  next  seven  years  of  his  life  we  can  learn  but  little  of,  except  that 
he  became  very  rigid  in  his  manners  and  devoted  much  time  to  religious 
duties.  His  house  was  ever  open  to  the  Non-conformist  ministers,  whose 
consciences  did  not  permit  them  to  comply  with  the  ritual  of  the  Estab 
lished  Church.  He  preached  in  support  of  their  principles  and  joined  them 
frequently  in  public  prayer. 

This  paved  the  way  for  his  popularity  at  Huntington,  and  soon  pro 
cured  him  the  honor  of  representing  that  borough  in  the  third  Parliament 
of  Charles  the  First.  Milton  says,  "  That  being  now  arrived  to  a  mature  and 
ripe  age,  all  which  time  he  spent  as  a  private  person,  noted  lor  nothing 
so  much  as  the  culture  of  pure  religion  and  an  integrity  of  life,  he  was 
grown  rich  at  home  and  had  enlarged  his  hopes,  relying  upon  God  and  a 
great  soul  in  a  quiet  bosom  for  any,  the  most  exalted  times." 

In  his  domestic  life  he  was  happy.  His  affection  for  his  wife  and 
family,  being  marked  and  tender,  was  by  them  heartily  returned. 

He  was  always  active  when  matters  of  religion  were  brought  before 
Parliament,  and  his  course  at  an  early  day  shows  the  bias  which  his 
mind  had  taken  and  the  ground  on  which  his  opposition  to  Government 
was  thenceforth  to  be  maintained. 

Sir  Philip  "Warwick  describes  his  appearance  in  Parliament  in  1G40, 
"as  untidy  in  his  dress,  his  stature  of  a  good  size,  his  countenance  full 
and  reddish,  his  voice  sharp  and  untunable,  but  his  eloquence  full  of 
fervor." 

Discontent  with  Charles's  administration  of  the  Government  soon  lead 
ing  to  overt  acts,  we  find  Cromwell,  at  the  age  of  4:>,  on  the  side  of  the 
people,  at  which  period,  in  1G42,  the  play  opens. 


CROMWELL: 

A    TRAGEDY,    IN     FIVE     ACTS. 


PERSONS   OF  THE  DRAMA. 

OLIVER  CROMWELL,  Commoner,  General,  then  Protector. 

IRETON,         \ 

INGOLDSBY,    v  His  sons-in-law. 

FLEETWOOD,  ) 

DESBOROUGH,  his  brother-in-law. 

PTM,  i 

HAMPDEN,     >  His  friends. 

HOLLIS,         ) 

OLIVER  and  RICHARD,  Cromwell's  sons. 

GENERAL  LAMBERT,  his  friend. 

GENTLEMEN  of  NORFOLK,  SUFFOLK,  HERTFORD,  ESSEX 

WIIITLOCKE,  WHALLY,  LENTIIAL. 

BRADSHAW,  HARRISON,  MARTIN,  GRIMSIIAWE,  LUDLOW. 

ASHE,  ALLEN. 

SIR  HARRY  VANE,  COLONEL  OAKEY,  SIR  ARTHUR  HAZELRIGG. 

MR.  LOVE  and  MR.  PEET,  RICH,  STAINES,  WATSON. 

MAJOR  SALLOW  AY,  CAREW,  LISLE. 

LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

AMBASSADORS  from  FRANCE  and  SPAIN. 

COLONEL  JEPHSON,  ASHE,  SIR  CHARLES  PACK. 

ATTORNEY-GENERAL. 

QUAKER  Fox,  a  great  merchant. 

SPEAKER. 

KING  CHARLES.  \ 

REGINALD  HASTINGS,  >•  His  friends. 

and  others,  ) 

LADY  CROMWELL,  wife  of  Cromwell. 
LADY  ELIZABETH  CROMWELL,  his  daughter. 
LADY  ALICE  LAMBERT,  wife  of  General  Lambert 
PATIENCE,  an  attendant. 
TRADESMEN,  CITIZENS,  and  SoLDiERa 

Scene — ENGLAND,  mostly  in  LONDON — A.  D.  1G42-1G58 


OEOMWELL. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  FIRST. 
A  street  in  London. 

CITIZENS  enter  from  opposite  sides. 

FIEST    CITIZEN. 

Which  way,  my  friend  ? 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

Unto  the  Commons. 

THIRD    CITIZEN. 

What  for  ? 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

To  seek  redress. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

To  seek  redress  for  what  ?  The  last  taxes  drained  our 
purses,  robbed  us  and  ours  of  our  homes— why  needs 
our  King  more  moneys  ? — we  have  no  wars. 

• 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

The  Pope,  who  rules  this  wife  that  rules 
Our  King,  exacts  new  tributes. 

THIRD    CITIZEN. 

Down  with  the  Pope !  if  needs  must  be, 
The  Queen ! 


CROMWELL.  [ACT 

FIIiST    CITIZEN. 

And  the  King  too ! 

THIRD    CITIZEN. 

Nay,  nay,  \ve  love  the  King !  he's  Stu.irt  blood  ! 
Let's  to  the  Commons  !  [Kayvnt. 


SCENE  SECOND. 
The  House  of  Commons. 

PYM,  rising. 

Fellow-Commoners  of  England  !   her  bulwark 
And  lu  r  boast,  with  love  and  loyalty  to  King  Charles 
I  rise — if  sad  my  visage,  sorrow  is  at  my  heart — 
To  state  that  he  would  violate  all  his  bonds 
Demanding  further  supplies  of  us. 

[noixis. 

And  I  deny  tint  wr  should  grant 
Them  to  him.     At  the  very  outset  of  his  reign, 
More  a  Papist  than  a  Puritan  at  heart, 
Charging  that  we,   his  people,   sparingly  doled  out    our 

supplies, 

He,  in  defiance  of  all  law,  his  firs"  Parliament  dissolved. 
A  second  he  convoked,  but  finding  that 
Still  more  intractable,  its  speedy  dissolution 
Was  its  fate;  and  he,  without  the  show 
Of  legal  right,  fresh  taxes  raised,  and  the  chiefs 
Of  the  opposition  into  the  cells  of  felons  threw. 
Is  this  the  meed  of  patriots? 

HAMPDEN. 

My  friends,  we  may  not  yield  to  these  demands ; 
The  Star-Chamber  we  have  swept  away, 
Tiic  High  Commission,  and  the  Council  of  York. 
Thomas  Wentworth,  late  Earl  of  Strafford,  has  expiated 


SfKXE    TT.]  CROMWELL.  ij 

His  great  crimes  by  axe  and  block  ; 

Laud  is  immured  in  yonder  Tower ; 

The  Lord  Keeper  finds  refuge  in  a  foreign  land  ; 

And  King  Charles  has  bound  himself  never 

To  adjourn,  dissolve,  or  prorogue  this  Parliament, 

Which  here  doth  meet,  without  its  own  consent, 

To  serve  its  God,  its  country,  and  its  King ! 

BEGIXALD    HASTINGS  (Royalist). 

Ay,  its  wronged  King! — robbed  of  age-founded 
Hereditary  rights  !     He  loves  his  country. 

PYM. 

Indeed  !    then  now  what  mean  these  discontents 

In  Ireland  ?     The  Rebellion  of  the  Roman  Catholics 

In  Ulster  hns  been  planned  nearer  home. 

Our  Que^n  one  of  that  faith,  our  King  of  no  faith 

At  all,  though  Protestant  avowed. 

REGINALD    HASTINGS  (Royalist). 

If  Church  and  King  no  reverence  command, 
In  gentle  courtesy  leave  our  fair  Queen  at  peace. 
Heed  ye  well,  that  when  the  Church  shall  fall,  then  falls 
the  State. 

DROMWELL  enters  and  takes  his  seat  on  L.  H.,  nearest  foot 
lights. 

CROMWELL,  aside. 

Two  fierce  and  eager  factions  it  would  seem, 
And  nearly  matched.     Be  the  King  wise  and  true, 
All  will  be  well  with  him.  and  his  tried  friends, 
While  we,  perforce,  must  seek  our  homes  in  other  climes. 
But  he  will  fail,  the  people's  rights  must  trimiph, 
And  henceforth  two  great  parties  in  this  realm 


8  CROMWELL.  [ACT   I. 

Shall  ever  contend  for  the  mastery. 

PYM. 

I  move  that  a  remonstrance  be  presented 
To  the  King,  enumerating  all  the  faults 
Of  his  administration,  expressing  the  distrust 
With  which  his  policy  is  still  regarded 
By  the  people,  and  their  inability 
To  endure  fresh  taxes — but  let  it  be  expressed 
In  love  and  true  allegiance. 

HAMPDEN. 

I  second  this. 

CROMWELL,  aside. 

My  thoughts !  my  sentiments  !  tho'  gemmed  in  eloquence. 
The  current  of  events  I'll  note,  and  use  them 
As  befits  me. 

SPEAKER. 

The  motion  ye  have  heard. 
All  in  its  favor  rise — 

[All  rise  except  Royalists. 
'Tis  carried — by  eleven  votes  majority. 

HOLLIS. 

His  Majesty  promises  well ;  but  yestere'en 
Falkland,  Hyde,  and  Colepepper  were  invited 
To  become  the  confidential  advisers 
Of  the  Crown. 

PTM. 

We'll  see  how  he  will  keep  his  promises. 
But  lo  !  whom  have  we  here  ? 

Enter  the  Attorney- General  and  the  Sergeant-at-Arms. 

SPEAKER. 

What  would  the  Attorney-General  of  the  realm, 
Of  England's  Commoners  ? 


SCENE    II.]  CROMWELL.  9 

ATTORNEY-GEN  ERAL. 

Our  Liege  commands  that  I  do  impeach 
Before  the  House  of  Lords — Lord  Kimbolton, 
Pym,  Hollis,  Ilampden,  Hazelrig,  and  Strode, 
Commoners  of  England,  for  high  treason. 

Great  commotion.]     Sir  !  sir !      [From  several  voices. 

CROMWELL,  rising  and  advancing. 
Do  I  hear  aright !  The  King  would  impeach 
These  gentlemen  ? 

ATTORNEY-GENERAL. 

You  do — the  Sergeaut-at-Arms, 

In  the  King's  name,  demands  of  the  House 

The  persons  of  these  six  gentlemen. 

CKOMWELL. 

By  your  leave,  we  will  consult 

On  this.     You  may  retire.  [Exit  Attorney-  General. 

My  friends,  this  is  too  true. 

*  Here  are  private  lines,  just  borne  to  me, 
Which  counsel  that  you  instantly  consult 
Your  safety.     The  King  himself  approaches 
With  an  armed  band. 

Great  outcry]     The  King  !  the  King  ! 

[From  several  voices. 

HAMPDEN. 

We'll  but  retire  till  the  whirlwind's  past, 
And  then  prepare  for  storms — where  is  the  treason  now  ? 

CROMWELL. 

'Twerc  well — retire.  [Exeunt  six  members. 

Aside.]  Oh,  Thou  !  to  whom,  in  humble,  heart-felt  fealty 

*  From  the  Countess  of  Carlisle,  sister  to  Northumberland. — Hume. 

1* 


10  CROMWELL.  [ACT  i. 

I  knelt  in  early  youth ;  unto  whose  helping  hand 
I've  trusting  clung  in  manhood's  stormy  hours, 
Nerve  me  with  lion's  strength,  that  singly  I  may  l>rave 
My  country's  foe,  and  save  her  from  this  tyranny. 

Turning  to  Commoner  &  J\ 

Be  not  dismayed,  my  friends.     He's  but  a  man, 
Like  one  of  us.    Now  must  we  prove  unto  the  wide  world 
For  every  age — that  steadfast,  true,  God-serving  hearts 
Are  never  left  to  fall.     Hark !  they  do  come. 

King  CHARLES  enters  with  armed  attendants. 

CHARLES. 
Where  are  those  whom  I  would  impeach  ? 

CROMWELL,  advancing. 

In  safety,  Sire. 
CHARLES. 
How  so  ? 

CROMWELL. 

God  keeps  them,  Sir. 
CHARLES,  aside. 

*We  lifittled  in  our  youth,  and  he  o'ennastered  me, 
Must  we  now  war  in  our  age  till  he  o'jrv>owers  me  ? 

CROMWELL,  advancing. 

My  Liege  and  royal  kinsman,  is  this  nobly  done  ? 
The  fo-est's  m  >n  irch,  royalty's  b^st  type, 
Singly  pursues  his  prey,  never  in  troops. 

CHARLES. 
Cromwell,  I  am — 

*King  James  paid  a  visit  to  Sir  Oliver  Cromwell  at  Hinchinbrooke 
House,  in  September,  1G04,  taking  with  him  his  son  Charles,  when  h-  and 
the  future  Protector  disagreed,  and  Oliver  so  little  regarded  the  dignity 
of  his  uncle's  royal  visitant,  that  he  made  the  royal  blood  How  in  copious 
streams  from  the  Priuco'a  nose. — •'  CromwtU,  a/td  his  Times." 


SCEXE    II.]  CROMWELL.  11 

CROMWELL. 

My  King,  whose  surest  safeguard 
Is  his  people's  love,  and  that  he  best  secures — 

CHARLES. 

Cromwell,  you  are  our  kinsman; 
Else— 

CROMWELL  (bowing),  aside. 

The  Sheriff's  deputy  would  fulfil 
His  office. 

My  Liege,  I'm,  as  you  know, 
But  a  plain  country  gentleman,  not  used 
To  courtly  phrases,  nor  the  arts  that  cloak 
The  thoughts  of  courtiers.     I  would  counsel 
You  in  love,  and  beg  you'd  learn  of  nature, 
And  behold  how  the  mnjestic  monarch 
Of  the  mount  maintains  his  proud  estate, 
Spreading  afar  his  roots  in  genial  soil. 
He  on  his  own  strength  relies  for  vigor 
To  sustain  his  outstretched  arms. 

He  never  seeks 

From  arid  rocks  sustenance  to  imbibe, 
Else  would  his  branches  die,  his  foliage  fall! 
The  sourcj  of  all  your  strength,  your  people's  purse, 
Is  well-nigh  drained — although  their  cup  of  loyalty 
Still  to  the  very  brim  is  full.     Deem  me  not  rude, 
But  banish  this  hired  troop — 'tis  a  rough  setting, 
And  out  of  keeping  with  your  royal  heart, 
Whose  richest  casket  is  your  people's  love. 

CHARLES. 

I  thank  you,  Cromwell,  for  this  truthfulness, 
Though  verily  it  grates  ;  for  I  have  feasted 
On  flattery  so  long,  that 


12  CROMWELL.  [ACT   I. 

Is  a  new  dish  anil  out  of  course.     I  would 
That  you  were  with  me,  not  against  me. 

CROMWELL. 

So  am  I,  and  would  ever  be,  reigned  you  yourself, 
Not  food  for  parasites,  who'd  sap  your  strength, 
Your  very  life,  for  self-advancement. 

CHAELES. 

I  would  those  gentlemen  would  wait  on  us. 
Counsel  this,  in  love  to  us,  and  come  with  them ; 
We  should  together  prop  up  the  Stuart  House, 
Sprung  from  the  self-same  source— 

I  would  consult  with  you. 

CROMWELL. 

Our  consultation  were  a  futile  act, 
Old  counsellors  still  about  you. 

CHARLES. 

But  come,  though 
I'll  not  yield  in  this. 

[Exit  CHARLES  and  attendants. 

CROMWELL. 

There  goes  a  noble  heart,  but  so  bewitched, 
And  so  long  trained  in  course  of  fell  deceit, 
That  even  I  dare  not  trust  him,  he  is 

So  hackneyed  in  these  Romish  ways. 

I'll  see  my  friends  and  serve  them  if  I  can, 
Save  them  I'm  sure  to  do — 

For  this  have  I  resolved  ! 

Here  has  Charles  wrecked  all  hopes;,  all  chances 
Of  success.     Commoners  of  England !  now  assert 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  13 

Your  rights.     Compliance  to  his  will  ceases 
To  be  a  virtue. 

Each  to  his  home 

In  London  ;  our  fortress  that,  well  garrisoned 
With  tried  and  loving  hearts  ;  urge  them  with  prayer 
True  succor  to  entreat ;  and  legions  from  the  Lord 
Will  join  our  ranks.    Proclaim  aloud  throughout  the  land 
Unto  the  wide,  wide  world, 

"That  where  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is,  there  is  Liberty." 
We  are  but  as  one  man  in  this,  I  believe — 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

ALL  exclaim,  retiring, 

But  one !  but  one ! 

CROMWELL,  going  out. 

Let's  on ! 

Where  are  the  friends  thou  hadst, 
My  King,  but  one  short  hour  ago  ? 
This  thy  last  act  has  made  each  man  thy  foe !          [Exit. 


SCENE  III. 
Street  in  London. 

PTM,  HAMPDEN,  and  HOLLIS,  stand  on  one  side  ;  deputations 
from  various  trades  pass,  exclaiming,  "  Privileges  of 
Parliament !  Privileges  of  Parliament !" 

PYM. 

It  all  works  well.     The  Mercers  these! 
And  here  another  comes  ! 

HAMPDEN. 

The  Porters  these !— a  God-fearing,  honest 
Class  !     Another  yet ! 


14  CROM  WEI/I,.  [ACT  i. 


HOLLIS 

The  Apprentices  !  bold  and  reckless  dare-devils 
Are  the.se,  but  honest  as  the  sun. 

HAMPDEN. 

Stand  ye  apart — the  King !  [  They  retire  one  side. 

The  Beggars  come 

The  other  way — we'll  note  their  salutation 

As  they  meet  him. 

King  CHARLES  enters  with  attendants,  and  they  pass  on. 
Deputation  of  Beggars  pass,  exclaiming,  "  Privileges 
of  Parliament !"  and  one  calls,  as  they  />ass  out,  To 
your  tents,  0  Israel  !* 

HAMPDEN. 

Wormwood  to  you,  my  King  ! 
My  pity  for  you  drowns  your  wrongs  to  me. 
This  is  Cromwell's  house.     We  must  with  him  consult ; 
Long  have  I  known  him;  he  is  of  all 
"  The  man  for  the  times,"  in  spite 
Of  Ids  rough  exterior.     If  he  lives,  he'll  be 
The  foremost  man  of  every  age.  \Ex-eunt. 


SCENE    FOURTH. 
Interior  of  Cromwell's  House. 

CROMWELL,  alone,  strides  across  the  stage. 
This  fire  at  my  heart  o'erheats  my  brain  ! 
Would  I  could  play  the  woman,  and  in  te;irs 
Weep  out  my  rage — no!  no!  they  would  but  scald 

*  The  words  employed  by  the  mutinous  Israelites  when  they  ;ib;indoued 
Rehoboam,  their  radii  and  ill-counselled  sovereign.  —  ffmne. —  Clarendon. 


SCENE    TV.]  CEOMWELL.  15 

My  furrowed  cheeks,  and  sear  with  life-long  scars. 
***** 

To  think  that  men  so  gentle  and  so  pure, 

So  elevate  in  nature,  that  they  look 

On  earthly  pride  and  pomp,  as  shines  the  sun 

Upon  tliis  tinselled  scene,  mere  work  of  men's  weak  hands, 

Should  be  thus  hunted  down  like  wolves, 

While,  lamb-like,  spite  of  all  their  wrongs, 

They  are  bleating  out  their  love  for  him, 

And  urging  gentle  treatment  of  their  tyrant  King. 

LADY  CROMWELL  enters. 
My  Lord,  my  loving  Lord !  what  moves  you  thus  ? 

CROMWELL. 

My  dearest  wife,  thy  love  ever  was  the  brook 
Whereat  I  slaked  my  thirst  and  cooled 
My  fevered  brow.     By  nature  I  was  never  gentle  : 
Rough  and  uncouth  in  form,  unhamme red  iron 
Both  my  heart  and  hand — I  am  o'erwrought  to-day ; 
But  now  thou  comest,  I  shall  grow  calm  and  cool, 
For  you  can  mould  me  as  you  will,  dear  love. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

But  what  is  this,  my  Lord  ? 

CROMWELL. 

Hast  thou  not  heard,  how,  mid  the  hot  debate 

Upon  his  new  demands, — Pym,  Hampden, 

Hollis,  and  our  friends,  urging  a  mild  remonstrance 

To  his  will  and  wishes, — first  there  comes 

A  message  from  the  King,  that  they  should  be  impeached, 

And  then  a  secret  letter  sent  to  me, 

Informing  that  in  person  he  would  seek  them, 

Of  which  I  instantly  advised. 


1 6  CROMWELL. 


[ACT  i. 


Scarce  had  the  Attorney  left  the  Commons,  when  the 

King, 

Forgetful  of  all  promises,  all  pledges, 
Forgetful  of  his  honor  as  a  man, 

O 

Forgetful  of  the  sacred  office  of  a  king, 

And  all  its  great  attendants,  rushed  in 

With  a  rude  band  of  hired  menials, 

And  did  demand  the  persons  of  these  gentlemen ! 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

You  did  not  yield  them  up  ? 

CROMWELL. 

No,  but  I  told  him 

That  God  kept  them,  as  He  ever  does  the  just ; 
That  He  would  preserve  them. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

Spake  you  thus  unto  the  King,  my  Lord  ? 

CROMWELL. 

I  did ;  in  what  is  he  more  than  mortal  like  us  ? 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

His  power ! 

CROMWELL. 

He  has  no  power  now.     He  had 
Until  this  hour;  till  now  the  Commons  inclined 
To  him,  despite  of  all  their  wrongs. 
But  this  last  act  awoke  the  slumbering  fires 
At  their  hearts ;  the  ebullitions  of  their  rage 
Burst  forth  as  the  long  smothered  volcano's  flames, 
And  swallowed  all  things  up.     The  streets  of  London 
Are  with  hot  lava  filled ;  none  but  spirits  kindred 
To  them  may  safely  sojourn  there. 

Enter  PYM,  HAMPDEX,  and  HOLLIS. 
Gentlemen,  you're  welcome,  very  welcome !     Here 


SCENE    IV.]  CROMWELL.  17 

For  a  time  you're  safe  !     [Shouts  heard.~\ 

What  means  this  outcry 
And  this  violence  ? 

PYM. 

Our  wrongs  have  taken  voice : 
All  London  is  aroused. 

HAMPDEN. 

And  we  must  seek 
How  best  to  quell  this  turbulence. 

CBOMWELL. 

True,  true ! 

It  were  not  well  that  it  should  spend  itself; 
We  yet  may  need  some  little  fire  to  light 
Us  on  our  way.     Hampden,  we  have  too  tamely  borne 
Our  wrongs,  more  like  weak  children,  'neath  the  brutal 

rule 

Of  some  tyrant  guardian,  than  the  people's  friends, 
Intrusted  with  the  care  of  their  dearest  rights. 
Strike  not  these  shouts  with  leaden  weight  upon  your 

hearts, 
Upbraiding  as  they  fall  ? 

HOLLIS. 

They  do  ;  and  we  must  act 
For  them,  if  Charles  dissolves  not  our  Parliament. 

CKOMWELL,  much  excited. 
Dissolve  this  Parliament!     He  shall  tear 
This  form  limb  from  limb, 
Till  that  the  weak  pulsation  of  this  heart 
Shall  be  sole  sign  that  ever  it  was  mortal, 

Ere  he  shall  dare  do  that !    We  have  been  too  tame  ! 

****** 

I  have  advised  that  Parliament  seize  the  town  of  Hull, 


18  CROMWELL.  [ACT   I. 

Where  there  is  now  a  magazine  of  arms ; 
That  Goring,  at  Portsmouth,  be  required 
To  obey  no  commands  but  theirs ; 
And  instant  arming  of  the  Londoners 
Take  place.     That  Essex  be  made  General 
Of  Parliament — but  here  is  Ireton  ! 
IRETON  enter •«.]     What  news,  my  son  ? 

IRETON. 

The  people  all  enraged,  the  King  has  gone 
To  York,  whither  the  nobility,  in  crowds, 
Do  follow  him. 

,     CROMWELL. 

Nobility ! 

The  tinselled  nobles  follow  him.     He 
Is  their  only  hope.     I  would  he  had  them  all ; 
Their  touch  but  taints  ; 
The  true  nobility  are  ours  !     What  more  ? 

IRETON. 

Essex  is  made  General  of  the  Parliamentary  forces, 
And  news  is  just  received  that  Charles  has  raised 
His  standard  at  Nottingham. 

CROMWELL. 

'Tis  well !  England  is  born  again  ! 
After  a  slumber  of  six  hundred  years,* 
The  Anglo-Saxon  shall  awake  to  life ! 
Where  was  thy  guardian  angel,  treacherous  King,f 
When  thou  compelled st  that  small  band 
Of  peaceful  spirits  who  had  embarked 
For  the  new  world  to  disembark,  and,  toiling,  here, 
Drag  out  a  mean  existence,  when  plenty, 
Peace,  virtue,  Religion,  there  were  free, 
As  God  first  made  them  unto  all  mankind  ? 
Since  thou  wouldst  have  me  great,  thou  must  not  murmur 

*  A'Bucket'a  murder.  1U34. 


SCENE    IV.]  CROMWELL. 


19 


That  thou  madest  me  so.     Though  I  may  never  tread 
New  England's   virgin  soil — bear  through  her  wondrous 

wilds 

The  banner  of  the  Lord — teach  the  Red  Man 
That  his  Great  Spirit  is  ours — that  we  are  but  one — 
I'll  sow  such  seeds  that  ages  yet  unborn, 
Throughout  the  world,  shall  bless  the  day 
Cromwell  from  peaceful  intents  was  torn, 
And  forced  to  be  a  Man. 

But  much  there  is  to  do  ; 

King  Charles's  army  will  be  in  bright  plumage  decked ; 
Rupert  is  a  master-spirit  in  the  charge, — 
He  has  trained  troops,  while  we  have,  at  best, 
A  rabble  crew,  will  never  stand  the  onset 

Of  the  foe! 

Gentlemen,  do  you  each  to  your 

Several  homes.     Holiis,  in  London,  enroll 

The  stoutest  artisans  of  our  faith. 

Pym,  there  are  many  kindred  spirits  will  follow 

You  where  fiercest  is  the  fight ;  drill  them 

Into  strict  obedience,  for  a  steady  front 

Is  what  we  most  shall  need.     Hampden,  my  friend, 

At  your  own  home  there  are  at  least  a  thousand 

True  a'nd  steadfast  hearts  ;  hasten  you  thither, 

And  prepare  them  all,  and  let  each  and  every  man 

Account  himself  the  Lord's.     Ireton  will  to  his  friends, 

And  raise  a  troop  of  horse;  while  I'll  to  Ely, 

And  arouse  all  mine. 

Pardon  me,  gentlemen, 
In  counselling  thus  the  choicest  spirits 
Of  the  land, — myself  an  humb'e  citizen, 
Though  servitor  of  God, — I  do  presume  too  much. 

HAMPDEN. 

We  came  not,  Cromwell,  for  honeyed  words, 


20  CROMWELL.  [ACT  I. 

But  counsel,  and  you  counsel  give, — such  counsel 
As  we  sought.     The  whirlwind  bows  all  trees 
Of  weaker  growth  ;  old  England's  oak  still  holds 
His  head  erect,  an  emblem  for  us  all. 
Be  thou  that  oak  ! 

CROMWELL. 

Then  since  you've  sought  from  me,  let  us, 
Each  and  all,  distrustful  of  his  single  strength, 
Seek  from  our  God  His  guidance  and  support ; 
And  with  a  pledge,  that,  as  we  shall  strive 
But  for  our  England's  honor  and  supremacy, 
So  when  her  peoples  rights  are  well  seciired, 
We'll  lay  aside  our  arms. 

[Exeunt  PYM,  HAMPDEN,  and  HOLLIS. 
Enter,  on  opposite   side,  his  daughter  ELIZABETH,  son 

OLIVES,  and  LADY  LAMBERT. 
My  own  fair  daughter  and  my  gallant  son  ; 
And  thou  !  most  lovely  Lady  Lambert,  dost  thou  brave 
This    scene,    venturing  through    London's    waves   tem 
pestuous, 
To  see  how  fiercely  they  are  chafing  here? 

[S'r iking  his  breast. 

My  children  dear,  ever  does  kind  Heaven  send 
Its  comforts  with  its  cares. 

LADY    LAMBERT. 

My  husband  absent, 

It  were  but  fitting  that  his  glory's  partner 
Should  learn  what  griefs  assail  our  cause, 
Th-it  she  might  timely  forewarn  him  in  words 
Of  gentlest  love,  not  let  them  rudely  burst 
Upon  his  ear,  too  oft  assailed  already  ; 
Emboldened  by  these  thoughts,  your  most  fair  daughter, 
Venus-like,  ushered  me  to  the  light  of  day, 
Thou  England's  Sun! 


SCENE    IV.]  CROMWELL.  21 

CROMWELL. 

Grace  in  your  speech,  no  less 
Than  in  your  form ! — henceforth  shall  Cromwell 
E'er  in  heaviest  hours  welcome  you, 
Dearest  lady,  amidst  these  his  best  counsellors 
(As  such,  my  wife  and  children  ever  proudly  owned). 
My  son,  it  seems  the  will  and  pleasure 
Of  the  Lord  that  I,  who  his  servitor 
So  long  have  been,  should  take  an  active, 
It  may  be,  foremost  part  with  my  long  well-tried  friends 
In  England's  cause. 

OLIVER. 
Father,  the  King ! 

CEOMWELL. 

Reigns,  son,  but  for  himself. 

He  doth  forget  the  trust  God  hath  reposed  in  him, 
Thus  choosing  him  His  Vicegerent.     Go  you  with  Ireton, 
Your  brother  now — a  father  in  my  absence  he  will  be 
To  you.     Ireton  !  my  eldest  son, — the  hope  and  love 
Of  manhood's  earliest  hours,  the  pride  of  present  years, 
And  promise  of  my  age, — I  do  intrust  to  you ; 
Make  him  a  soldier,  but  a  soldier  in  the  Lord ; 
A  warrior  like  yourself,  I  ask  no  more; 
Now  take  him  with  you,  and  enroll  your  horse. 

IRETON. 
Father,  it  shall  be  so. 

OLIVER. 

Come,  Ireton,  I  am  eager 
For  the  fight ;  I'll  not  disgrace  my  lineage 
Or  my  name. 

CROMWELL. 
Well  said,  my  son,  m.ay  Heaven  be  with  you. 


22  CROMWELL.  [ACT    I. 

IRETON. 

Hark !  "  Cromwell"  fills  the  air  as  well  as  gilds  the  walls ; 

All  London's  streets  proclaim  the  people's  will, 

And  call  to  arms.     [Exeunt  IRETON  and  young  OLIVER. 

CROMWELL. 

Not  theirs,  but  God's ! 
His  high  behest  I  must,  I  will  obey.     [Exit  CROMWELL. 

LADY   ELIZABETH. 

0  dearest  Lady !  what  a  rived  heart  is  mine  ; 

My  duty  weighed  against  my  love.     I  may  not  pray 
For  either  cause. 

LADY   LAMBERT. 

Cheer  thee,  dear  girl !     Your  father 
Is  no  foe  unto  the  King,  but  unto  his  dishonor. 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

Think  you  that  he  will  hearken  to  our  love  ? 

LADY   LAMBERT. 

You  are  as  nobly  born  as  this  Young  Charles, 
But  custom  sanctions  not  an  honorable  love 
Between  the  prince  and  subject. 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

Sweet  friend, 

That  is  the  worm  that  gnaws !     No  other 
Ever  could  be  mine, — none  other  would  Charles  have ; 
He  loves  me  purely,  worships  rue  as  though 

1  were  a  saint  from  Heaven. 

LADY    LAMBERT. 

I  pray  thee,  think  no  more  of  it, 
Insatiate — it  is  man's  way — but  satisfied — beware  ! 
He  is  by  birth  a  King!     They  deem  all  creatures 
Made  but  for  their  pleasure  and  their  will — ay, 


SCENE    IV.]  CROMWELL.  23 

Even  earth's  fairest,  such  as  thou,  sweet  girl. 
Beware  !  beware !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  FIFTH. 

A  Large  Tent. — An  Encampment. — Night — Table,  Books,  and  Taper. 
CKOMWELL. 

Is  this  a  dream,  or  dread  reality  ? 

Have  those  strange  thoughts  I  dwelt  on  in  my  youth 

Thus  taken  form  and  shape  ?  or  have  I  on  visions 

So  long  feasted  that  my  mind,  o'er  wrought,  wanders 

Mid  quicksands  will  my  hopes  ingulf? 

'Tis  night ;  no  sound,  save  the  trusty  sentinel's  tread, 

Who  keeps  his  watch,  humming  some  holy  strain, 

And  praying  God  to  guard  his  earthly  hopes 

As  he  shall  guard  His  cause. 

It  is  no  dream. 

A  nation's  wrongs  have  forced  a  nation's  heart 
To  burst  the  cerements  of  kingly  love, 
And  make  a  bold  assertion  of  their  rights  ; 
Rights  born  of  Heaven,  conferred  by  God ; 
Not  to  be  lightly  or  unvalued  worn. 

Kneeling.]     His  hand  I  see  in  this — to  whom  I  kneel 
In  humble  supplication  for  His  aid, 
His  counsel,  and  His  care.     A  distant  tread — 
A  challenge — they  have  passed  ; 
It  is  those  valued  friends  I  summoned  here. 
1  summoned  here ! — Why  would  they  make  me  first  ? 
Essex  and  Fairfax  are  of  nobler  rank, 
Though  not  more  nobly  born.     For  am  not  I 
A  kinsman  of  the  King? — might  have  been 
King  myself!  might  have  been  king  myself? 
I  see  no  weird  women  on  this  heath ; 


24  CROMWELL.  [ACT    I. 

There  are  no  spirits  in  the  air,  I  know, 

To  whisper  this  to  me !     It  is  no  whisper, 

Though  it  sounds  as  though  'twere  thunder-born, 

And  drowns  my  every  thought  but  this  : 

That  I  might  have  been  king !     And  so  I  might, 

As  well  as  he  who  now  doth  wear  the  diadem : 

From  Alexander,  Lord  High  Steward  of  Scotland,* 

Both  are*  sprung — Charles  traces  back  through  a  long 

line  of  kings, 

His  ancestor  being  the  elder  son  ;  while  I 
Am  scion  of  that  noble  house,  descended 
Through  my  sainted  mother,  eleventh  in  succession 
From  that  Lord's  third  son,   while  Charles  is  but  the 

twelfth 

From  his  eldest  born. 
There  glares  the  curse  of  primogeniture  ! 
The  times  have  changed,  and  so  must  human  courses. 
I  will  be  king — king  in  the  service  of  the  King  of  kings, 
And  reign  pre-eminent  o'er  the  hearts  of  men. 
[Enter  several  gentlemen  escorted  by  the  sentinel.] 
My  friends. 

GENTLEMAN. 

Cromwell,  your  messenger  urged 
All  haste,  or  we  had  not  intruded  on  the  night 
With  the  day's  business. 

CROMWELL. 

You're  very  welcome, 

And  I  thank  yon  heartily.     So  long  unused 
To  every  public  charge, — my  little  knowledge 
Being  but  from  books, — this  glittering  harness 
But  uneasily  fits,  and,  like  an  untutored  steed, 
I  must  be  trained  to  it.     But  now  I  learn 
That  Lord  Capel  advances  upon  Cambridge 
*  Noble. 


SCENE   V.]  CROMWELL.  25 

With  both  horse  and  foot ;  that  many 

Of  the  old  nobility  are  hastening  up  in  arms. 

Aside.]     I'll  sound  these  gentlemen  ! — 
"We  must  consider  seriously,  my  friends,  how  acceptable 
"  A  service  to  the  King  ours  would  be, 
"  To  keep  five  whole  counties  in  his  obedience." 

GENTLEMAN. 

Is  there  then  hope  of  him  ? 

CROMWELL. 

There  is  always  hope  with  life.     Bad  counsellors 
Are  his  curte.     We  must  be  a  sheet-anchor 
To  the  State  ;  fast  holding  amid  the  gales 
That  fiercely  assail  her  now  ;  but  see 
What  honors,  what  rewards,  the  storm  o'erpast, 
We  then  may  justly  claim  for  such  true  loyalty. 
"  What  troops  are  there  in  Essex  now,  who  have 
"  The  honor  and  happiness  of  the  King  at  heart  ?" 

GENTLEMAN   OP   ESSEX. 

Three  thousand  ;  two  of  stalwart  hearts  on  foot, 
One  thousand  the  best  mounted  in  the  land. 

CROMWELL. 

I  know  your  stables  are  most  choicely  filled ; 
Your  riders  are  ? 

GENTLEMAN    OF    SUSSEX. 

A  God-fearing,  prayerful,  preachful  set — 

CROMWELL. 

In  our  cause  chief  elements  of  success.  • 
And  yours  of  Suffolk  ? 

GENTLEMAN    OF    SUFFOLK. 

Two  thousand — all  well-armed,  brave  artisans. 
2 


26  CKOMWELL.  [ACT 

CROMWELL. 

A  brawny  race — I've  met  with  them.     And  yours 
Of  Hertford  ? 

GENTLEMAN    OF   HERTFORD. 

Three  thousand  and  three  hundred 
When  all  told — with  most  delicious  voices 
And  great  prayers. 

CROMWELL,  smiling. 

Less  music  shall  we  need,  then. 
'Tis  very  well — for  'tis  expensive,  and  all  we  save 
We  gain.  And  how  of  Norfolk  ? 

GENTLEMAN    OF   NORFOLK. 

Jockeys  in  Norfolk, — 

Every  man's  a  horse.  »Some  fifteen  hundred 
Chanting  cherubs,  with  good  steeds, 
And  fifteen  hundred  well  mounted  as  at  their  birth. 

CROMWELL. 
You're  pleasant,  sir ! 

GENTLEMAN    OF    NORFOLK. 

It  is  but  pleasure  that  I've  entered  on- 
A  game  of  chance — 'tis  true,  a  boisterous  game. 
The  winner — who  can  tell  ? 

CROMWELL,  aside. 
'Tis  a  shrewd  fellow — what  does  he  mean  ? 

Ironically^  Gentlemen,  you  deserve 

Much  love  and  many  honors  from  your  King. 
Meet  me  here  with  your  best  speed,  six  days 
From  this,  with  all  the  forces  you  can  raise. 
Bring  nil  your  saints  from  Hertford,  and  Norfolk's 
Chanting  cherubs  !  \Exeunt  Gentlemen. 

A  saintly  crew — I'll  use  them. 


SCENE    V.]  CROMWELL.  27 

Sentinel  enters  and  hands  papers.] 

What  now  ?  from  London  !  from  Hampden,  too  ? 

Reads.~\  "  Spare  nor  goad  nor  spur,  but  speed  to  London ; 

Now  the  Commons  sit  in  consultation 

Upon  proposals  made  by  the  Lords  in  favor 

Of  a  peace.     Haste,  or  our  cause  is  lost " 

Lost!  Lost!  no,  no  !  thou  noble  spirit,  tried  friend, 
And  truest  gentleman  that  England  boasts. 
No  cause  is  lost,  with  Hampden  on  its  side. 
God  watches  with  the  virtuous — they  ne'er  fail ; 
Though  they  may  fall,  'tis  but  as  sets  the  sun  to-day 
To  rise  the  brighter  on  to-morrow's  morn. 
True  virtue  never  fails — 

My  horse — my  fleetest  horse  I 

My  Ironsides,  an'  you  will 

GENERAL  LAMBERT  enters.]    Remain  you  in  command, 
My  trusty  friend,  for  I  must  post  to  London. 
Read  this — it  is  for  thee  alone  ;  observe 
The  strictest  discipline — religious^  exercises 
Thrice  a  day  ;  with  purest  sentiments  inspire 
The  men  ;  let  them  have  no  time  for  idle  thoughts 
Or  ribald  jests. 

And  this,  the  "  Soldier's  Bible,"*  give  to  each, 
Where,  from  the  Holy  Scriptures, — THE  CHARTERS 

OP   THE    LIBERTIES    OF    MANKIND, Selections 

Most  appropriate  may  be  found  ; 
Thus  may  each  daily  say  or  sing 
The  praises  of  his  God. 

The  morn  now  breaks, 
'  And  I  must  speed  away  on  matters  of  great  moment 

*  Cromwell  had  appropriate  quotations  made  from  the  Tloly  Scriptures, 
printed  upon  a  sheet  folded  into  sixteen  pages,  a  copy  of  which  was  given 
to  every  soldier  under  his  command. 


28  CROMWELL.  [ACT    II. 

To  our  cause —  [Distant  Reveille  heard. 

"  What  is  to  do?     I  know  not  what  I  would  have, 
Though  I  know  what  I  would  not  have." 

GENERAL   LAMBERT. 

You  have  not  rested  now  for  some  three  nights ; 
Nature  will  be  outworn — 

CROMWELL. 

Good  friend,  my  country  calls ; 
I  may  not  rest  for  many  a  night — 
Aside.]    It  may  be  never  more. 
Farewell !  God  speed  you  all 

LAMBERT  walks  back  towards  the  tent.     CROMWELL  exits. 
Curtain  falls  slowly. 

END  OF  ACT  I. 


SCENE    I.]  CROMWELL.  29 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  FIRST. 
Room  in  Cromwell's  House. 

LADY  CROMWELL,  LADY  ALICE  LAMBERT,  and  LADY 
ELIZABETH  CROMWELL,  enter. 

LADY   CROMWELL. 

Hark,  how  the  shouts  of  a  maddened  populace 
Come  like  the  surges  of  a  raging  sea, 
Lashed  into  fury  by  contending  winds, 
Proclaiming  some  new-born  wrongs  heaped 
On  their  already  overloaded  backs  !     My  King, 
My  King,  why  goad  them  unto  frenzy  ? 

LADY    LAMBERT. 

The  roar  hath  passed, 
And  now  falls  on  the  ear  as  murmur 
-  Of  a  distant  sea,  subsiding  into  peace. 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

Yes,  lady  mother,  now  notes  of  joy  and  voices 
Of  glad  welcome  fill  the  air,  as  though 
Some  mighty  conqueror  approached,  laden 
With  new-born  honors. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

'Tis  Pym  they  name,  and  Hampden, 
Cromwell's  friends.     Why  do  they  rank  him  first  ? 
Would  we  were  safe  upon  New  England's  shore ! 
I  dread  this  sudden  greatness.     My  King  !  my  King  1 
Oh,  thou  art  ill-advised  ;  thy  gentle,  true, 


30  CROMWELL. 

And  trusting  nature  is  abused.     Why  cast 
You  from  you  all  would  be  your  friends, 
And  leap  into  this  den  ?     Sweet  Lady  Alice, 
Where  is  now  your  lord  ?     Lambert  has  potent  voice 
With  this  rude  crowd.     He  should  be  here 
When  Cromwell  is  away. 

LADY   LAMBEET. 

It  is  thy  Lord  Cromwell's  order  he  observes, 

That  keeps  him  from  the  hearts  that  love  him  best. 

The  Parliament  sent  him  hence  to  raise 

Fresh  troops,  and  he  returns  not  till  they  summon  him. 

But  here  are  worthy  gentlemen — 

Hampden,  England's  pearl, 
And  Pym,  the  gorgeous  ruby  of  ^he  times. 

HAMPDEK  and  PYM  enter,  saying, 

At  your  service,  ladies. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

You're  very  welcome,  gentlemen,  for  our  woman  fears 

Have  magnified  the  noise  in  London's  streets 

Into  things  terrible,  and  our  tiimd  hearts 

Beat  quickly  for  those  friends  we  know  do  brave 

The  storms.     When  hast  thou  heard  from  my  honored 

Lord  ?— 

'Tis  strange  that  I  must  question  you  of  him, — • 
I,  who  ne'er  passed  a  day  without  his  smiles, 
From  that  proud  hour  when  first  I  called  him 
Lord,  till,  leaving  Nature's  bright  and  lovely  walks, 
We  sought  a  home  mid  London's  dreary  walls. 

HAMPDEX. 

You  may  expect  him  ere  the  sun  hath  set ; 
Most  urgent  matters  call  him  here.  [Giving  letters. 


SCENE    I.]  •     CROMWELL.  31 

Sweet  Lady  Lambert,  from  your  honored  Lord, 
A  trusty  messenger  these  lines  hath  brought. 

LADY   ALICE. 

My  Lord  !   my  honored  Lord ! — 

HAMPDEN. 

Most  fair  Elizabeth,  thy  smiles  I  woo 
To  win  me  to  forgetfulness.     Would  that  I  had 
A  son,  and  he  might  win  your  love,  that  I  might  call 
You  daughter — thou  brightest  jewel  in  our  Cromwell's 
home. 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

Kind  Sir,  I  am  not  worthy  of  such  praise, 
Far,  far  more  honored  than  my  poor  deserts, 
By  your  o'er-estimate — 

[CROMWELL  enters. 
Rttshes  to  CROMWELL.]     My  father,  my  dear  father  1 

CROMWELL  salutes  each. 

My  child,  my  dearest  child,  my  honored  wife, 
Fair  Lady  Alice, — and  my  friends — 

[  Giving  a  hand  to  HAMPDEN  and  PYM. 

My  friends,  ye  are  true  friends 
Indeed, — thus,  mid  the  many  calls  our  country 
Makes,  to  offer  solace  to  these  o'ertasked  hearts. 
Hampclen,  how  idle  are  the  glories  of  the  world ; 
How  vain,  illusory,  the  gifts  which  shine 
Most  gorgeous  to  our  view  !     How  rich  in  blessings 
Is  that  peaceful  country  life,  where  we  had  dwelt 
So  long.     How  valued  was  the  privilege  granted  us 
Of  studying  in  great  Nature's  book, 
Written  by  God's  own  hand.     I  am  already 
Sickening  of  this  scene  of  turmoil  and  of  strife, 
And  envy  even  the  untutored  savage 


32  CROMWELL.  [ACT    II. 

Who  may  roam  at  will,  and  worship  the  Great  Spirit 
Unrestrained,  in  Nature's  wondrous  temples — 
His,  his  is  freedom — there  the  soul  may  soar 
Where'er  its  Godlike  nature  bears  it, 
And  such  adoration  render  as  the  spirit 
Feels,  of  essence  like  itself. 

'Tis  not  the  material  form 
That  alone  untrammelled  makes  us  freemen  ; 
But  the  immaterial  sense  that  teaches  us 
That  we  are  heavenly  born — that  this  life's 
But  a  pilgrimage. 

LADY     CROMWELL. 

My  dearest  Lord,  you  think 
Too  deeply  ;  you  magnify  our  cares  ! 
God  gives  us  charges,  but  He  gives  us,  too, 
Ability  to  fulfil  them  ;  he  praises  best, 
And  the  best  service  renders,  who  loveth  best 
Whatever  is  imposed  by  Him.     There  is 
Some  occult  blessing  e'er  in  store,  whatever  our  trials. 

CROMWELL. 

True,  my  sweet  comforter — my  saint-like  wife — 
Seeing  letter  in  LADY  ALICE'S  hand,  who  starts.] 
Fair  Lady  Alice  !    From  your  lord,  I  ween — 

How  fares  my  friend  ? 

LADY  ALICE. 

Well  as  his  friends  could  wish. 

CROMWELL. 

Shouts  heardJ\  Hampden,  what  mean  these  cheers  ? 

HAMPDEN,  going  to  window. 

Cheers  for  our  friends — our  true  and  steadfast  friends. 
Unto  the  Lords'  proposal  for  a  peace, 


SCENE    I.]  CROMWELL. 

The  Commons  had  well-nigh  yielded  ; 
For  two  long  nights,  an  angry,  hot  debate 
Gave  us  but  a  slight  majority. 

CROMWELL. 

What !  are  we,  then,  so  weak  in  friends, 
Or  were  they  overawed  ? 


Uncertain  of  their  strength  ; 
And  hearing  Charles  gathered  fresh  forces 
Every  hour,  many  did  quiver,  while 
Some  men  quailed ! 

CROMWELL. 

Brave  hearts  !    Why,  they  should  tougher  grow, 
Like  steel,  the  more  they  are  hammered  on. 
This  gives  me  new  strength  !     What  said  the  Londoners 
To  this  ? 

HAMPDEN". 

They  called  them  cowards,  truants 
To  the  trust  the  people  had  reposed  in  them. 
Now,  the  foremost  of  our  citizens  do  parade 
The  streets  with  drums,  and  fifes,  and  martial  music ; 
While  banners  flaunt  the  air ;  and  call 
Upon  the  populace  to  enroll  in  the  defence  of  London. 

CROMWELL. 

This,  that  daunts  them,  gives  me  new  strength, 
Nerves  me  for  mightier  trials.     I'll  seek 
Their  leaders,  and  inflame  their  hearts 
With  the  pure  fires  of  Liberty ! 

This  is  no  time 
For  woman's  fears  !     Quivered  and  quailed, 

You  said,  when  that  their  country's  welfare 

2* 


34  CROMWELL.  [ACT    II. 

Was  at  stake —  [Turning  to  his  daughter. 

Why,  I  would  offer  up  this, 
My  dearest  child,  on  Liberty's  altar, 
For  a  sacrifice,  and  deem  it  cheaply  bought, 
"  Though  my  heart  writhed  in  agony  at  the  deed ! 
Come,  we'll  unto  our  friends. 
Exeunt  Ladies  on  one  side.] 

[CROMWELL,  PYM,  and  HAMPDEN  exeunt  on  the  other. 


SCENE  SECOND. 
Streets  of  London,  at  nightfall. — Popular  Commotion. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

Down  with  these  fickle  Commoners,  and  give  us  men  ! 

SECOND  CITIZEN. 

Give  us  those  spirits  dare  assert  our  rights  ! 

THIRD  CITIZEN. 

Men  sprung  from  Nature ;  not  the  tinselled  forms 
That  glisten,  to  dim  at  the  mere  touch  of  breath. 

FOURTH    CITIZEN. 

Give  us  our  Pym ! 

FIFTH    CITIZEN. 

Our  Hampdeu  ! 

SIXTH    CITIZEN. 

Our  Ilollis !     But  here  they  come. 
Enter  PYM,  HAMPDEN,  and  HOLLIS. 

HOLLIS. 

Thanks,  my  friends,  thanks ;  this  gives  me  hope  ; 
For  I  had  feared  Peace  had  most  truly  rusted  out 


SCENE    II.]  CROMWELL.  35 

Not  only  our  arms,  but  hearts  ;  that  our  English  valor, 

So  famed,  was  gone. 

But  twenty  miles  apart,  for  ten  days  the  foes  sought  each 

other. 

The  battle  of  Edgeliill  was  fought ;  and  he  who  was 
The  conqueror,  after  a  good  night's  repose, 
First  left  the  field!     Essex  retiring  to  Warwick 
With  his  carpet  knights  ; 

The  King,  with  his  show  troops,  too  glad  to  escape 
A  second  fight,  fell  back  on  his  old  post 
At  Banbury,  leaving  five  thousand  Englishmen 
On  the  field.     This  Rupert  is  a  hot-headed 
And  bold  partisan — unequalled 
In  the  sudden  and  fierce  onslaught ; — 
But  there's,  as  yet,  no  general  in  the  field. 

HAMPDEN. 

But  there  is  in  the  LAND.     The  man  is  born 
That  shall  be  styled— 

"THE    BEST   THING    EVER    ENGLAND    DID." 

Nurtured  in  peaceful  arts,  of  stalwart  form, 

Sustained  in  all  his  trials  by  his  faith  in  God ; 

Looking  on  life,  as  written  in  His  book, 

A  scene  of  obligations  must  be  filled 

By  each  in  his  due  course ;  not  seeking 

How  he  may  evade,  to  him,  God's  seeming  stern, 

But  justice-born  commands. 

CITIZENS. 

Cheers  for  Hampden,  Hollis,  Pym — 

Cromwell  enters.]  And  Cromwell,  too. 

Cheers  for  the  people's  friends. 

HAMPDEN. 

Thanks,  thanks,  my  gentle  friends. 


36  CROM\TELL.  [ACT   TT. 

CBOMWELL. 

Thanks,  thanks,  yo  noble  hearts,  no  longer     ^ 

Would  be  slaves.     'Tis  true,  in  loyalty  you  love 

Your  King;  but  he's  no  King  who  violates 

All  rights,  all  obligations,  and  forgets  his  royalty. 

For  royalty  is  born  of  God,  and  to  be  honored, 

Must  be  worn  as  wears  the  Lord  his  attributes. 

Has  not  he  raised  his  banner  against  you 

At  Northampton  ?     Has  not  Edgehill  been  fought, 

And  Marston  Moor  ?     The  reeking  wounds  of  thousands 

call  from  earth 

For  vengeance  on  their  heads  so  ill  advise, 
While  hosts  of  departed  spirits  knock 
At  Heaven's  gate,  witnesses  from  this  dread  scene  ; 
I  would  not  stir  you  up  to  rage  by  asking 
Of  those  dearest  friends  you've  lost ;     I  would  not  wake 
The  sleeping  lion  at  your  hearts  by  asking 
For  your  butchered  young ! 

But,  in  Religion's  name, 
I'd  ask  if  'tis  ordained,  expressed, 
Or  even  implied,  that  one  man's  wicked  will 
Shall  trample  on  a  nation's  rights  ?     I  find 
No  record  of  it  in  the  Word  of  God, — 
The  true  authority  for  all  man's  acts. 
Some  are  there,  who  would  have  you  yield  tamely, 
Submissively ;  I  tell  you,  no !     You  have  a  sacred  trust, 
Untarnished  to  transmit  to  ages  yet  unborn. 
But  let  your  work  be  in  the  spirit  of  the  Lord ! 
Consider  deeply,  how  high  the  trust  that  God 
Has  given  in  endowing  reason — likening 
To  himself  mere  worms  of  earth.     See  how  the  world 
Has  grown  in  temporal,  since  spiritual  gifts 
To  it  were  known !     The  seed  is  sown,  the  culture 


SCENE    II.]  CROMWELL.  37 

By  Heaven  taught,  the  harvest's  all  your  own. 

Your  King  has  forced  you  into  arms  ; 

For  years  you've  tamely  borne  all  your  wrongs 

Granting  supplies — for  what?   that  while  you're  poor 

He  and  his  pampered  menials  might  be  rich. 

There  is  no  halo  hanging  about  his  name ; 

Has  England's  glory  ever  been  his  aim  ? 

Is  there  one  single  act,  in  all  his  long  and  peaceful  reign, 

Adorns  the  page  of  history?    No! 

But  his  wilful  violations  of  your  rights 

Outnumber  the  sea-shore's  sands! 

I  would  not  urge  yon,  friends,  against  your  King ; 

There's  a  divinity  doth  guard  that  name. 

Bat  since  this  Charles  has  raised  his  standard 

Against  his  people  and  their  Heaven-born  rights, 

He  has  become  no  more  than  their  common  foe. 

When  he  is  mindful  of  his  proud  estate, 

Transmitted  to  him  through  a  line  of  kings, 

Banishes  from  his  side  the  assassins  of  England's  honor, 

He  will  be  in  his  people's  hearts  enthroned, 

And  there  more  proudly  gemmed  than  e'er  was 

Egypt's  queen ;  religions  hosts  his  never-sleeping  guard, 

So  long  as  virtue  shines  his  diadem. 

In  the  mean  time,  prepare  we  for  the  worst ; 

Forewarned,  hereafter  we  mu<t  be  found  forearmed. 

I  must  to  the  field  and  face  this  "  people's  foe."   [^Exeunt. 


38  CROMWELL.  [ACT  n. 

SCENE   THIRD. 
Room  in  Cromwell's  House — Morning. 

LADY  CROMWELL,  LADY  LAMBERT,  and  LADY  ELIZABETH 
at  a  table,  sewing.    PATIEXCE,  an  attendant. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

Good  Patience,  thou  hast  brought  no  news  to-day. 
Go  hearken  what  the  gossips  say  below. 

\Exit  PATIENCE. 

Dear  Lady  Alice  and  my  fair  daughter, 
The  one  the  bride  of  Lambert — you  our  Cromwell's  pride, 
There  is  sad  news  to-day !     Charles  and  his  friends 
Are  carrying  all  before  them  in  the  west. 
At  Stratton  they  have  overcome  our  Stamford ; 
At  Lawnsdown,  too,  with  dreadful  loss  of  life, 
The  Royalists  gnined  the  victory ;  and  Bristol, 
Second  city  in  the  land,  in  riches  and  in  greatness, 
Has  been  taken. 

LADY    ALICE. 

My  Lord — 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

Is  safe  with  Essex — [to  Elizabeth]  where  your  father  is. 

LADY    ELIZABETH,  aside. 

My  father!  mine's  a  divided  interest. 

Which  father  do  I  mean — my  source  and  spring  of  life, 

Or  him,  my  source  of  hope,  love,  happiness, — 

The  father  of  my  Charles?     Oh,  dreadful  day 

That  ever  I  was  born  to  know  such  misery! 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  39 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

Who  comes  ? 
PYM  and  HAMPDEN  enter.'] 

PYM. 
Your  friends  and  servitors. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

What  news  ? 

PYM. 

None  but  ill  news. 

A  king  is  warring  against  his  people ; 
His  people,  serpent-like,  against  themselves. 
Our  Edmund  Waller — the  courtly  gentleman, 
The  poet,  scholar,  and  the  soul,  'twas  thought, 
Of  honor — has  been  detected  in  a  foul  conspiracy. 
He  and  his  brother  Tompkins  and  friend  Chaloner 
Are  hung !     There  was  no  course  but  this. 

HAMPDEN. 

The  battle  of  Nevvbury  has  been  fought 

And  the  pure  Falkland's  fallen,  with  "peace" 

Upon  his  lips.    Both  armies  worsted — London's  militia, 

As  Anglo-Saxons  ever  do,  equalling  the  veteran's  valor — • 

Have  retired  to  winter  quarters,  and  we  may  soon 

Expect  our  friends.     Essex  is  no  great  general. 

,  LADY    ALICE. 

Then  Cromwell  will  be  home — your  Lord  and  my  Lord — 
Lambert  will  be  home  ! 

LADY    ELIZABETH,  aside. 

And  my  Charles,  where  ? 


40  CROMWELL.  [ACT   II. 

PYM. 

Your  Cromwell  is  the  soul  of  our  arms. 
He  found  a  rabble  crew,  and  formed 
A  bulwark  for  our  liberties. 

In  Newbury's  fight 

Our  troops  were  felled  by  Rupert's  fierce  onslaught 
As  hurricane  fells  forest-trees,  till  Cromwell 
With  his  netted  foot,  his  mettled  cavalry, 
A  rocky  front  opposed,  as  breasts  the  firm-based  mount, 
Now  frowning  in  the  clouds,  now  in  the  sunshine  gleaming, 
The  waves  that  lash  its  iron  sides — mere  mockery. 
Fairfax  and  CROMWELL  are  our  sole  hope, 
His  name  alone  a  legion. 

Yet  more  than  this, 

He's  not  found  only  in  the  fiercest  fight, 
But  in  the  Council  stands  pre-eminent ; 
Let  but  a  friend  of  Cromwell's  propose  a  step, 
And  all  the  way  shines  bright,  where  was  but  gloom. 
Were  he  like  us,  seeing  no  Charles,  all  would  be  well. 
His  kinsman  of  England,  with  his  regal  rights, 
Falls  like  a  shadow  on  his  noble  heart 
And  palls  his  arm — though  all  his  love  is  England's. 

HAMPDEN. 

We  have  one  hope,  and  that  is,  that  this  Charles 
May  yet  be  guilty  of  deceit  towards  him, 
And  sever  all  their  bonds.     My  friend — 
IRETON  enter sJ] 

IRETON. 

Ts  my  friend  Cromwell  here  ? — my  father, 

For  I  have  won  that  name  winning  his  daughter's  love. 

CKOMWELL  enters.] 


SCENE    III.]  OEOMWELL.  41 

PYM. 

My  country's  hope ! 

IEETON. 

My  father ! 

LADY    CEOMWELL. 

My  honored  lord  I 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

My  father  ! 

LADY    ALICE. 

And  my — friend  ! 

CEOMWELL. 

Love  and  esteem  to  each  and  all — 

My  honorable  wife ! 

To  LADY  ALICE.]     My  lovely  lady  !  my  children ! 

To  PYM.]     Mine  and  England's  truest  friend, 
You've  seen  the  cloud  that  lowers  in  our  skies 
Coming  as  comes  the  snow,  a  leaden  pall, 
Sent  from  the  Ice-King's  Court,  as  though  in  league 
Against  us.     You'll  see  it  all  dispelled 
As  morning  mist  before  the  Day-King's  messenger. 
Rny  after  ray  now  rises,  and  each  one  glistens 
Brighter  than  the  last ;  rolling  its  folds  away. 
I  would  preserve  my  King,  while  quelling 
Our  foes  ;  I  would  that  he  might  wear  his  royalty — 
An  emanation  from  the  Deity  ; 
If  he  will  not,  he  is  no  King.     He  summons  now 
•    One  portion  of  the  land  to  war  upon  the  other. 
Scotland  is  all  in  arms,  and  in  his  cause 
Would  wreak  her  vengeance  upon  England 
For  her  imagined  wrongs — wrongs  which  have  made 
Her  great.     One  of  the  brightest  jewels 


42  CROMWELL.  [ACT   II. 

In  earth's  diadem,  "  Great  Britain"  speaks 
Her  fame  unto  the  wide,  wide  world. 

IRETON. 

You,  her  general,  speak  of  others'  wrongs; 
Sees  thy  noble  nature  not  thy  own  ? 

CROMWELL. 
What  means  my  son  ?  thy  brow  is  clouded. 

IRETON. 
Thine  ear  apart — these  women  and  their  tongues ! — 

CROMWELL. 

Indeed — it  must  be  weighty. 

CROMWELL  and  IRETON  apart.]  [Exeunt  others- 

IRETON. 

Since  you  took  Hilsdon  House  and  kept  Oxford 
In  alarm,  even  the  foe  do  pit  you  against 
Prince  Rupert ;  the  King,  hearing  this,  himself 
Exclaimed : 

"  I  would  some  one  would  do  me 
The  good  service  to  bring  Cromwell  to  me, 
Alive  or  dead." 

CROMWELL. 

He  flatters  me ! 

But  I'll  not  favor  him  with  my  presence  yet. 
The  time  will  come  when  we'll  stand  front  to  front. 

IRETON. 

But  more,  he  has  dispatched  letters  to  the  Queen 
Touching  your  life. 

CROMWELL. 

My  life !  'tis  in  God's  hands ! 


SCENE    IV.]  CROMWELL.  43 

IRETON. 

Concealed  in  a  saddle — they  will  be  sent 
To  a  certain  tavern  on  the  coast  near  this, 
And  thence  to  France. 

CKOMWELL. 

We  will  dispatch  some  trusty  friends 

To  seize  them — yet  stay,  we'll  be  those  friends 

Ourselves.     Come,  you  are  ever  ready 

For  the  scene  of  danger.     We'll  seize  this  saddle 

Ourselves.     It  may  not  prove  an  easy  one 

To  Charles.     We'll  borrow  some  troopers'  cloaks 

And  morions.     Come,  away !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE   FOURTH. 
A  Camp. — Parliamentary  Officers  advance. — General's  tent  in  front. 

FIRST    OFFICER. 

So  a  deputation  has  been  sent  to  Scotland 
To  negotiate  a  treaty. 

Our  lamb-like  Parliament 

Are  sick  of  war,  ere  they  have  heard  its  sound. 
Our  troops  too,  all  unpaid,  as  well  as  we — 
Where  is  our  General  Cromwell  ?     He  is  the  man 
For  times  like  these !     Essex  and  Fairfax 
Are  too  tamely  given. 

SECOND    OFFICER. 

Too  true,  alas  ! — for  now  the  battle 
Of  ISTaseby  is  fought,  and  Colonel  Monk  has  joined' 
Our  cause — but  here  conies  Ireton,  and  Cromwell  too. 
IRETON  and  CROMWELL  enter '.] 


44  CROMWELL.  [ACT  n. 

CROMWELL,  with  <i  letter. 

Weak  and  perfidious  tyrant !     Here  has  he  sealed 
His  own  destruction. 

Forsooth  he  is  courted 
Alike  by  both  factions,  but  rather  thinks 
To  close  with  the  Presbyterians. 

His  French  Madam, 

Her  whom  they  ycleped  our  Queen,  reproaches 
Him  with  making  too  large  concessions 
To  those  villains  ; — and  here  he  writes : 
"  But,  dear  heart,  rest  thou  assured 
That  I  shall  in  due  time  know  what  to  do 
With  these  rogues,  who,  instead  of  a  silken  leash, 
Shall  be  fitted  with  a  hempen  cord." 
Look  to  it,  Charles,  thy  head  is  not  so  firm 
On  thy  shoulders  as  it  was  an  hour  since. 

IRETOX. 
It  may  be  he  thus  speaks  to  please  his  dame. 

CROMWELL. 

And  so  would  hang  us  some  fair  day, 
By  way  of  gallantry  to  his  spouse  ! 
There  is  no  longer  a  King  in  England! 
Her  monarchy  died  within  the  hour, 
Though  it  be  aged  sixteen  hundred  years. 
Harrison,  return  at  once  to  camp  !     Arouse 
Our  troops  !  rekindle  the  stined  flames 
Into  a  blaze  ! — restore  the  confidence 
Of  the  army  in  its  leaders  ;  assure  them 
We 'have  abandoned  all  intention 
In  favor  of  this  King. 

Ireton,  what  said 


SCENE    IV.]  CROMWELL.  45 

The  Parliament  to  the  conditions  I  would  propose 
Unto  the  King  ? 

IRETON. 

They  did  address  them  to  him, 
And  he  returned  an  obstinate  refusal. 

CROMWELL. 
What  then  ?     Speak  quickly  ! 

IRETON. 

The  vote  of  non-addresses  was  passed. 

CROMWELL. 

Then  is  Charles  in  fact,  though  not  in  words, 
Dethroned ! 

We  will  keep  down  by  military  awe 
The  majority  in  Parliament. 

IRETON. 

But  blow  after  blow  on  all  sides  falls  upon  us ! 
The  Scots  kvade  !     The  fleets  in  the  Thames 
Have  hoisted  the  royal  colors  ;  risings 
In  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  Essex,  Kent,  and  Wales ; 
Divisions  among  ourselves — Fairfax, 
Governed  either  by  his  wife  or  by  his  rigid 
Presbyterian  principles,  refused  to  lead 
Against  the  Scots.     May  it  not  be  suspected 
That  these  movements  are  contemplated 
With  secret  complacency  by  a  majority 
Of  the  Lords  and  Commons  ? 

CROMWELL. 

What  of  that  ? 

He  is  not  the  only  general  in  the  land — 
We'll  find  another.  The  Master  Genius 
Of  the  times  shall  rise,  and  against  all 


4G  CROMWELL.  [AOT    IT- 

Alone  suffice ; — who  greater,  purer,  than  our  Hampden  ? 
Hasten  you  unto  Fail-fax  ;  govern  him  ; 
See  that  he  suppress  the  insurrection 
In  the  South.     In  Wales  I  will  subdue  the  revolt ; 
And  while  they  think  me  there,  I  will  to  Scotland. 
I'll  drive  them  to  their  hills — these  Highland  Chiefs. 
Haste  ye  to  the  South  !  keep  up  the  drooping  spirits 
Of  our  troops. 

IRETOX. 

It  shall  be  done.     Fare  you  well. 

Giving  letter.]    But  ha !   I  did  forget — I  found  this  letter 
In  my  tent — it  is  addressed  unto  the  troops. 

CROMWELL. 
Ha !     Ha-a-a-a  !    What  devil's  work  is  this  ?    Ho,  there ! 

Soldier  enters.'] 

Are  my  brave  fellows  prepared  for  the  review  ? 
We  soon  shall  meet  the  foe. 

The  victory  must  be  ours. 

SOLDIER. 
They  but  await  their  General. 

CROMWELL. 

I  will  attend. 
[Exeunt  CROMWELL  and  others  through  his  tent. 


SCENE   FIFTH. 

Scene  changes  to  troops  drawn  up  in  line  prepared  for  the  Review — Let 
this  be  done  by  drawing  aside  the  General's  Tent. 

CROMWELL  advances  with  Officers — a  letter  in  his  hand — 
and  says : 

Ha !     My  brave  soldiers  in  the  Lord — 

What !    Discontent ?    What !    Fears  ?    Whose  lines 


SCJ^NE    7-.J  CEOMWELL.  •*? 

Are  these  would  stir  you  to  revolt  ? 

To  revolt 

Against  whom  ?     Against  yourselves — for  'tis  yourselves 
"Who  would  fall,  if  you  fail.     Has  not 
"  The  Almighty  set  his  Canon  against 
^elf-slaughter  ?"     'Tis  this  it  bids  you  do — 
A  suicidal  act — No  I  no!  it  cannot  be — 
The  bare  thought  of  such  a  dreadful  deed 
Strikes  terror  in  your  hearts,  and  tears,  I  see — 
Tears  of  contrition,  the  only  tears 
The  Independent  soldier  ever  sheds, — 
Steal  mournfully  down  your  cheeks. 

I  can  no  more — 

You  never  will,  I  know,  desert  your  Lord ! 
Desert  your  wives — your  babes — your  homes  ! 
Desert  your  General  and  this  holy  cause ! 

TROOPS. 

Never  !  never  !  never  ! 
Rear  high  our  standard — lead  us  to  the  fight ! 

CROMWELL,  unfurling  a  flag. 

The  victory  is  won  ! — "  The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  with  us ! 
The  God  of  Jacob  is  our  refuge.  "^On,  Ironsides,  on ! 

TABLEAU. 

Curtain  Falls. 


48  CROMWELL.  X  ACT 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  FIRST. 
Streets  of  London — Whitehall. 

A  crowd  of  Citizens. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

The  King !  the  King  ! 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

What  king  ? 

THIRD    CITIZEN. 

Why  our  King,  King  Charles, 
Escorted  now  from  Hurst  to  Windsor 
By  our  Colonel  Harrison. 

FOURTH    CITIZEN. 

What,  have  we  earthed  the  fox  at  last, 
Despite  of  all  his  cunning  ?  "He  who  publicly  recognized* 
The  houses  at  Westminster  as  a  legal  Parliament, 
And  at  the  same  time  made  a  private  minute 
In  Council  declaring  the  recognition  null. 

FIFTH    CITIZEN. 

Ay,  and  publicly  disclaimed  all  thought 
Of  calling  in  foreign  aid  against  liis  people ; 
At  the  same  time  privately  soliciting  it 
From  France,  Denmark,  and  Lorraine. 

SIXTH    CITIZEN. 

He  denied  that  he  employed  Papists,  at  the  same  time 
Privately  sent  to  his  generals,  directions  to  employ 

*  Maeaulay 


SCENE    I.]  CROMWELL.  49 

Every  Papist  that  would  serve  ;  publicly 
Took  the  Sacrament  at  Oxford,  as  a  pledge 
That  he  never  would  even  connive  at  Popery ; 
Privately  assured  his  Popish  wife  that  he  intended 
To  tolerate  it  in  England,  and  authorized 
Lord  Glamorgan  to  promise  that  it  should 
Be  established  in  Ireland — and  then  attempted 
To  clear  himself  at  his  agent's  expense, 
Who  received,  in  the  royal  handwriting, 
Reprimands,  intended  to  be  read  by  others, 
And  eulogies,  to  be  seen  but  by  himself. 
Why,  even  his  most  devoted  friends  complain 
Among  themselves,  with  bitter  grief  and  shame, 
Of  his  crooked  politics.     His  defeats,  they  say, 
Give  them  less  pain  than  his  intrigues." 

SEVENTH    CITIZEN. 

A  prisoner,  he  will  seek  to  cajole 

And  undermine  our  Cromwell — who  now  returns 

Triumphant  from  the  North. 

SIXTH    CITIZEN. 

Let  the  poor  king 

Pass  privately  to  Windsor — admiring  crowds 
Will  yet  attend  his  way. 

SEVENTH    CITIZEN. 

Ay,  ay,  his  way  to  heaven  or — 

SEVERAL     CITIZENS. 

All  hail  to  Cromwell! — Cromwell  comes — Cromwell, 
Our  hope,  our  trust. 

CROMWELL  enters,  with  Soldiers  and  great  state.] 

Thanks — thanks, 
My  friends  and  fellow-soldiers  in  the  Lord; 


50  •  CROMWELL.  [ACT  in. 

The  fight  is  fought,  the  victory  is  ours. 

Praise  and  thanks  to  Him,  the  God  of  battles, 

Who  smiled  upon  our  arms  ;  not  unto  me  — 

His  humble  instrument.      Give  thanks,  give  thanks  ! 

TROOPS    AND    CITIZENS. 

Amen  !    Amen  !    Amen  ! 

IKETON. 

Onward,  brave  troops. 

[Soldiers  and  Citizens  exeunt. 
To  CROMWELL.]  —  General,  the  King  has  gone  to  Windsor. 

CROMWELL. 


Is  sent,  you  mean  —  [^ls«V?e.]  —  and  THENCE  !  ! 

To  IRETOX.]  —  Bid  Whitelock,  Widdington,  Lenthal,  and 

Dean 
Unto  a  private  conference. 

IRETON. 

Where  ? 

CROMWELL. 

Where  ?    Where  but  here,  at  Whitehall  ? 

[Exit  IRETON. 

Charles  at  Windsor  !     Cromwell  at  Whitehall  ! 
Charles  king  in  title,  but  in  power  how  fallen  ! 
And  I,  Oliver  Cromwell,  master  of  this  realm. 
It  is  a  vain  and  idle  thing  in  me 
To  strive  to  keep  my  thoughts  among  the  herd, 
When  all  will  have  me  great.     It  has  been  whispered 
That  the  King  must  die  ;  some  men  of  blood, 
Warriors  austere,  who've  ruled  the  nation 
Now  for  many  months,  meditate  a  fearful  vengeance 
On  the  captive  Iv'mg.*     Where  was  engendered 
*  U'itory  of  Indepency.     Part  II. 


SCENE    II.]  CROMWELL.  51 

This  most  horrid  thought  ?     Where  could  it  be 

But  in  his  most  unrighteous  acts,  who,  wrong 

On  wrong  upon  his  people  heaping,  has  reared 

A  power  crushes  beneath  its  might  all  reverence 

And  all  love.     I  will  not  harp  on  this, 

Nor  ever  will  consent  to  shed  that  royal  blood — 

A  deed  inexpiable,  and  which  will  move 

The  grief  and  horror  of  the  world.     Some  call 

Me  hypocrite  ;  I  am  no  fool.     Charles  the  First 

Dead — vengeance  all  wreaked — his  faults  all  flown 

With  him,  Charles  the  Second — next  of  the  royal  line — 

Will  rise  in  youth  and  innocence,  and  veiling 

All  his  father's  faults,  that  sainted  blood  will  cry 

Aloud  to  Heaven  for  vengeance  on  his  judges. 

I  ne'er  will  sanction  this,  have  I  but  power 

To  save  him.*  [Exit  CROMWELL. 


SCENE  SECOND. 

Scene   changes  to  Room  in  Whitehall. — A  Royal  Bed. — WHITELOCK, 
WEDDINGTON,  LENTHAL,  and  DEAN,  writing  at  a  table. 

CROMWELL  enters. 

ALL. 

General,  you  are  welcome  once  more  to  London. 

CROMWELL. 

Thanks,  my  friends,  thanks.  Would  that  myself 
Were  the  less  kindly  greeted,  and  my  poor  King 
Had  but  his  measure  of  his  people's  love. 

WHITELOCK. 

General,  that  thought  was  idly  born,  though  born 

In  reverence  ;  nothing  will  now  suffice 

But— 

*  Heath. 


52  CROMWELL.  [ACT  in. 

CROMWELL,  throwing  himself  upon  the  royal  bed. 

Nay,  name  it  not ;  there  ever  are  expedients  left, 

Asked  in  sincerity  in  a  virtuous  cause, 

Heaven-sent.     I  would  devise  some  plan 

For  the  return  of  the  secluded  members 

To  their  duty  in  Parliament.     An  answer 

Of  the  Lower  House  to  the  messages  of  the  army, 

Counselling  gentleness,  and  a  Proclamation 

Drawn,  to  he  issued  by  the  Lords  and  Commons 

For  the  settlement  of  the  nation.     I  pray  you 

Have  this  speedily  done.  [Exeunt. 

CROMWELL,  alone. 

What  am  I  now  to  do  if  this  should  fail  ? 
I  would  not  that  his  royal  head  should  fall; 
And  yet  it  may  not  reign.     The  people  all  are  mine ; 
The  soldiers  too ;  but  only  mine  while  I  am 
Charles's  foe.     Thus  far  has  Heaven  smiled 
Upon  the  Independents'  cause — a  cause 
By  their  forbearance  sacred  made  ;  but  let 
That  royal  blood  be  spilt,  each  drop  that  falls 
Will  cleanse  out  an  offence. 
My  Ironsides  name  must  e'er  untarnished  be ; 
In  our  rare  camp,  no  drunkenness  or  gambling  e'er  is  seen ; 
No  rights  of  peaceful  citizens  disturbed, 
And  woman's  honor  is  most  sacred  held. 
Hampden  and  Pym  are  in  their  graves  — 
Alas  for  England,  and  for  me  ! — Hampden  fell          [genets, 
On  Chalgrave  field,  and  Pym  now  sleeps  with  the  Planta- 
While  Buckingham,  Strafford,  Laud,   lie   in  their  bloody 
graves. 

IRETON  enters. 

General,  a  missive —  {Handing  a  letter. 


SCENE    II.]  CROMWELL.  53 

CROMWELL. 

Nay,  a  letter. 

IRETON. 

'Tis  from  the  Queen. 

CROMWELL. 

The  Queen  !  what  Queen  ?     This  curse  of  queens 

Has  brought  his  royal  head  unto  the  block ! 

Ireton,  my  son,  I  see  it  all. 

It  shows  as  black  as  yonder  stormy  cloud, 

And  laden  with  Heaven's  wrathfulness. 

They  shall  not  kill  my  King.     He  yet  shall  live. 

What  would  this  Queen  ? 

IRETON. 

A  pass  to  return  to  England. 

CROMAVELL. 

Nay,  nay,  that  would  be  fatal.     Her  Popish  name 
Would  whet  the  axe.     Her  presence  give  the  blow. 

IRETON. 
The  States  of  Holland,  too,  have  interposed. 

CROMWELL. 

Unwisely  done ;  they  have  interposed  ere  now 
As  England's  foes — this  is  too  fresh  in  memories 
Of  trie  people  and  the  troops. 

IRETON. 

Colonel  John  Cromwell, 
Commissioned  by  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
Would  wait  on  you. 

CROMWELL. 

Go  tell  him  I  may  not  see  him. 
Tell  him  I  know  his  errand.     He  knows 


54  CROMWELL.  [ACT  m. 

I  would  have  saved  my  King — would  he  have  saved 

Himself — will  save  him  if  I  may.  \Ireton  exits. 

I  see  it  all ;  there  is  but  one  man  left  in  England, 

The  world  asserts  it ;  that  man  is — who  ? 

One  Oliver  Cromwell,  late  a  plain  country  gentleman. 

What  trick  would  Fortune  play  me  ?     Fortune, 

The  heathen's  boast.     In  this  enlightened  age, 

The  Scriptures  teach,  man  has  no  fortune 

But  a  destiny ;  clothed  with  due  powers, 

Guided  by  an  almighty  hand,  so  long 

As  Virtue's  plain  ways  and  walks,  by  Conscience 

Sentinelled,  are  trod,  no  foes  can  come, 

And  his  great  charge  fulfilled  ;  God's  appointed  end 

Is  reached. 

If  in  his  trust  he  fails,  he  falls 
Forever;  if  he  is  true,  he  lives  till  the  doom 
Of  time. 

There  is  a  leaden  weight  about  my  heart ; 
A  pall  enshrouds  my  thoughts. 
May  Heaven  give  me  strength  in  this  dread  hour. 

BKADSHAW  enters. 

General,  there  is  no  treating  with  this  Charles. 
He  will  be  King,  or  nothing. 

HARRISON  AND  GEIMSHAWE  enter. \ 

HARBISON. 

That  shall  he  be 
Before  to-morrow's  sun. 

CROMWELL,  rising  and  advancing. 

Nay,  nay,  my  masters  I 

Such  unseemly  haste  betokens  malice,  not  justice. 
Since  'tis  your  will  his  royal  head  must  bow 
To  dust,  remember  he  has  been  our  King. 
Let  this  our  deed,  at  which  the  world  shall  stand 


SCENE    IT.]  CROMWELL.  55 

Amazed,  at  least  the  semblance  of  justice  wear. 
Deposed,  dethroned,  tried  in  the  face  of  all  the  world, 
For  wrongs  against  his  people  and  his  realm, 
He  as  a  KING  should  die, — a  warning 
For  all  after  times. 

Remember,  He  whose  servitors 
We  are,  was  by  the  accursed  unbelievers 
Dragged  unto  His  ignominious  and  most  bitter  death ; 
Remember  how  Nature  yawned  ;  how  the  sun 
Shrunk  from  earth,  in  horror  at  the  sight ; 
And  the  whole  world  convulsed.     Remember,  too, 
How,  God  Himself,  He  rose  ;  how  His  blessed  name 
Drowns  every  sound  where'er  'tis  heard,  when 
Every  head  in  reverence  bows,  and  every  knee  is  bent; 
How  they,  in  theirs,  are  wretched  wanderers  through  the 

wide,  wide  world, — 

No  land,  no  home,  not  even  one  resting-place ! 
I  counsel,  that  you  ponder  well  on  this, 
Lest  that,  too  late,  you  learn  your  fatal  error. 

HARRISON. 
General,  are  you  against  us  ?     The  troops — 

CROMWELL. 

Are  MINE ! 

BRADSHAW. 

General,  sign  here  our  sentence — 

CROMWELL. 

Our  sentence! — nay,  nay  ! — not  mine,  not  mine! 

Oh  !  I  would  stay  your  suicidal  hands  ; 

You  know  not  what  you  do  !  [Exit  CROMWELL. 

BRADSHAW. 

Our  General  not  with  us?     Have  we  raised 
A  power  we  may  not  curb  ? 


56  CROMWELL.  [AfT   III. 

HARRISON. 

I'll  hasten,  and  stir  up 

The  troops ;  if  they  demand  it,  he  will  yield. 
His  heart  is  with  us,  'tis  his  hand  that  fails. 

GRIMSHAWE. 

It  never  failed  till  now.     He  would  not  have 

Us  act  so  unadvisedly.     'Tis  for  ourselves, 

Not  Charles,  he  counsels  this.     Let  but  the  people 

And  the  troops  require,  and  he  will  sign  the  sentence. 

BRADSHAW. 

Then  each  unto  his  several  friends ;  insist 
Upon  our  sentence  being  passed,  and  executed 
Without  delay.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  THIRD. 
Cromwell's  Room. 

CROMWELL,  alone. 

Is  it  come  to  this  ?  that  I,  Avho  ever  sought 
But  paths  of  peace  and  righteous  ways,  must  steep 
My  soul  in  blood,  or  lose  my  life  ?    There's  nothing  left 
But  this.    My  life  !  and  what  is  life,  that  I  should  weigh  it 
Against  eternal  death — deepest  damnation — 
For  this  murder  foul — for  murder  sure  it  is  ! 
Who  comes  ? — [!RETON  enters.'] — Ireton,  my  son,  what 
means  this  haste  ? 

IRETO5T. 

The  troops  are  murmuring  that  you  stay  their  will ; 
p'he  populace  cry  out,  that  they  will  have  his  blood. 

CROMWELL. 

So  have  they  cried  before  from  the  oldest  time, 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  57 

Yet  rent  the  air  (their  act  scarce  o'er)  with  waitings. 
Ireton,  my  son — Charles   the   First   dead,  Charles   the 

Second 

Lives,  most  potent  of  the  twain.     Charles  the  First 
Living  (imprisoned,  an'  you  will),  there  is  no  Charles  the 

Second, 
And  the  Commons  are  rulers  of  the  realm ! 

IEETON. 

The  Commons  now  are  rulers  of  this  realm — 
Cromwell  their  General — soon  their  KING. 

[CKOMWELL  starts  at  this. 
For  we,  your  troops,  are  masters  of  the  land. 

CROMWELL,  looking  earnestly,  fixedly,  and  sternly  at  BRE 
TON,  goes  up  to  him, 

There  have  been  spectres,  witches,  weird  women, 
In  the  olden  times,  so  teach  the  nursery  dames ; 
Which  of  all  these  art  thou  ? — wouldst  drag  my  soul 
To  ruin,  offering  thus  the  diadem 
For  a  blood-stained  hand  ?     Canst  thou  bo  Ireton  ? — 
My  son  ?     Father  to  those  darling  babes 
Caressing,  fondling,  call  me  grandsire  ? 
My  daughter's  husband? — art  a  man  ?     Put  out 
Thine  hand, — 'tis  flesh  and  blood !     Let  me  but  gaze 
Upon  that  face, — those  locks  ; — they  live,  as  I  have  seen 
Them  in  the  battle  fierce,  bristling  with  fury. 
Those  eyes, — so  cold,  so  china-like, — are  thine. 
^ There  are  no  smiles. 

\Half  asidel\      I  never  saw  a  smile  upon  his  face. 
This  hand — this  cold  and  clammy  hand- 
How  didst  thou  win  my  daughter's  love?     Nay,  nay, 
Hast  thou  not  entwined  thyself  about  my  heart  ? 
Thy  serpent  beauties  sure  are  basalisks  !     *     * 

*  Ireton.  "the  man  of  blood." — Clarendon. 
3* 


58  CROMWELL.  [ACT    III. 

*The  vision,  Ireton,  said  not  I  should  be  King, 
But  "  greatest  man  of  England." 

IRETON. 

How  such,  but  King  ? — 
See,  here  is  Grimshawe. 

GRIMSHAWE,  entering. 

General,  the  people 
All,  with  one  accord,  demand  his  death. 

CROMWELL. 

Grimshawe,  the  troops  are  there  to  preserve 
The  law,  which  knows  no  populace 
And  no  partisans. 

HARRISON,  entering. 

General,  the  troops  are  with  the  tradesmen  siding, 
And  all  demand  his  death. 
Here  is  the  warrant,  wanting  but  your  signatTire. 

CROMWELL. 

Is  it  come  to  this  ? — leave  it,  pray  leave  it ! 
Leave  me  all,  awhile. 

[Exeunt  all,  save  IRETON,  who  goes  to  one  side. 
RICHARD  CROMWELL,  enters.] 

Ha  I  what  wouldst  thou,  son  ?     Com'st  thou  to  urge 
This  bloody  act  ?      Why  am  I  thus  encircled  by  fierce 
hearts  ? 

RICHARD    CROMWELL. 

Father,  you  are  o'erwrought — you  mistake  my  purpose. 

CROMWELL. 

Nay,  nay  !  you,  like  the  rest,  would  rather  be  great 
Than  good.     I  tell  you,  Virtue's  is  the  only  crown 
That's  worth  the  wearing. 

*  Clarendon. 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  59 

RICHARD. 

So  have  I  learned, 

From  the  first  lesson  that  I  conned  with  you 
Till  this  dark  hour  of  melancholy  tasks. 
Father,  upon  my  knee  I  do  beseech  you,  sign  not  that ! 
I'd  rather  toil  from  sun  to  sun  in  the  far 
Western  wilds, — the  turf  my  couch,  the  sky  my  canopy,— 
Than  have  this  dear  hand  stained  by  an  unworthy  act, 
Much  less  give  warrant  for  our  monarch's  death. 

CROMWELL,  embracing  him. 

Richard,  my  son — thou  art  my  son — indeed 

Thou  art ;  I  never  prized  you  at  one-half 

Your  worth.    [Seeing  IRETON.]    Ireton,  he  reads  a  lesson 

Unto  you,  and  them — those  bloody  men. 

IRETON. 

He  knows  not  the  world.     He  is  too  young — 
The  age  of  lovers,  when,  with  mincing  steps, 
They  track  fair  maids,  with  silvery  tongues  ; 
This  their  high  ambition. 

Here  comes  your  fairest  daughter. 

CROMWELL. 

Go  ye,  and  learn  the  people's  and  the  soldiers'  wills  ; 
I  would  be  alone  with  her. 

[IRETON  and  RICHARD  exeunt. 
It  may  be  she  would  unfold  the  delicate  leaves 
Of  her  young  heart  unto  her  father's  love, 
As  doth  the  tender  flower  to  the  ever-cheering  sun. 
ELIZABETH  enters.']  My  dearest  child ! 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

Father,  your  looks  are  sad,  your  eye  is  heavy, 


60  CROMWELL.  [ACT  in. 

And  on  your  brow  the  clouds  of  care,  not  anger  1 
Half  aside.]     I  augur  well  from  this. 

CROMWELL. 
Why  so  !  what  wouldst  thou  ask  ? 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

A  life ! 

CROMWELL. 

A  life !     Whose  is  it  that  I  hold  the  tenure  of? 
Sure  I  am  grown  great,  when  life  is  in  my  gift — 
But  I  ne'er  sought  this  power. 

LADY   ELIZABETH. 

My  King's. 

CROMWELL. 

Alas  !    it  is  not  mine  to  give  or  keep. 

All  that  I  may  do  I  have  done  ;  I  am  no  long'er 

Master  of  myself,  but  slave  to  thousands. 

Hark  to  the  rabble's  cry! — a  cry  for  blood ; 

Hark  to  the  murmurs  of  my  troops ! 

Most  melancholy  sounds  that  ever  fall 

Upon  a  leader's  ear. 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

Better  hear  this 

Than  Conscience's  upbraiding  voice  should  break 
The  silence  of  the  midnight  air,  bearing 
The  shrieks  of  mothers,  daughters,  children  grown, 
Ay,  infants,  too,  ever  to  your  restless  couch. 

CROMWELL. 

Stay  !  stay  !     No  more — no  more  ! 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

One  thing,  and  I  have  done: 
You  ever  said,  you  loved  me  best  of  all. 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  61 

I  have  loved  you  as  never  other  loved  ; 

And  I  would  make  you  partner  in  my  young  heart's  hopes, 

Which  you  may  turn  to  joy  or  bitterness 

Which  shall  it  be  ?     It  is  your  daughter, 

Father,  asks  you  this.     One  word,  and  life  and  love, 

Or  misery  till  death  ! 

CROMWELL. 
Nay,  nay!  how  so?     Speak,  speak! 

LADY   ELIZABETH. 

I  love  our  Liege's  son,  and  he  loves  me ; 
His  father  saved — and  thou  canst  do  it — 
Your  daughter  his  son's  bride — my  father  lives 
In  honor  and  in  glory  ;  the  glory 
Of  a  great,  a  virtuous  dee  I ! 

Spurn  this  base  rule ; 
Tis  but  a  mob's,  who'll  turn  against'you, 
Gratified  or  no. 

CKOMWELL. 

But  Charles  has  sought  my  life — would  seek  it  again — 
And  with  my  life  my  country's  liberties. 
Great  Brutus  slew  his  best  friend  for  Rome  ; 
Should  Cromwell  do  less  for  England,  thou  noble  girl? 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

Ay,  father,  this  is  true ;  but,  Caesar  slain, 
Was  not  the  curse  of  blood  upon  their  heads, 
And  early,  ignominious  deaths  their  lot  ? 
'Twere  best  to  ponder  on  it.     Oh,  now  I  see 
You're  moved !    Give  me  that  hideous  paper, 
Whose  words  gleam  out  like  peace-pursuing  nends. 

CEOMWELL. 

Nay,  touch  it  not!     If  Charles  and  England 


62  CROMWELL.  [ACT  in. 

Both  can  live,  he  shall ;  if  one  must  die, 
His  was  the  smallest  evil  of  the  two. 
The  times,  my  child,  are  changed — 

England  is  new-born. 

The  spirit  of  the  far  Western  clime  new  nature 
Has  infused  into  us  all.     We  must  move  on, 
Untrammelled  by  old  customs,  which  do  bind 
The  hands,  as  Popery  binds  the  soul. 
The  Priest  has  fallen !     The  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
Is  in  the  land  ;  and  where  He  is,  there  is  Liberty. 
Daughter,  I  would  that  I  might  grant  thy  prayer ; 
This  Charles  is  e'en  a  noble  boy  ;  if  I  may  save 
His  father,  child,  I  will.     First  England — then  ourselves. 
But  hark  !  what  notes  are  these  ? — a  funeral  dirge — 
What  other  of  the  heroes  of  the  age  has  fallen? 

IRETON  enters.] 
To  ELIZABETH] — Daughter,  pray  retire. 

[ELIZABETH  exits. 
Speak,  Ireton,  speak!  what  means  your  grief? 

IRETON. 

Cromwell,  my  father !  you  are  a  soldier, 
And  a  Christian,  too.     Rally  around  you 
All  your  strength,  for  you  have  n?ed  of  it. 
The  bolt  has  fallen  on  your  house. 

CROMWELL. 

My  house  ?  my  house  ?     My  son !  my  son  ! 
Where  is  my  Oliver  ? 

HARRISON,  GUIMSHAWE,  and  others  enter,  escorting  a  Irtcr. 
What  noble  form  is  this?    My  child's !  [Falls  on  it. 

Almighty  God,  have  mercy  on  me  now. 
My  boy  !  my  boy!  speak,  speak! — no  voice  to  answer 
Mine,  that  ne'er  was  heard  in  vain. 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  63 

Hushed  is  the  sweetest  music  I  e'er  heard  ; 
Fallen  the  noblest  form  I  e'er  beheld. 

HARRISON. 

General — 

CROMWELL. 

Can  ye  not  spare  me  but  a  little  while, 
My  masters  ?     Surely,  the  State's  service 
Gives  me  time  to  weep  my  first-born, 
And  most  fondly  loved.     How  happened  this, 
And  where? 

HARRISON. 

Hastening  to  London  with  a  small  force, 
Sir  John  Elliott,  with  a  troop  of  the  late  King's  Horse, 
Assailed  him.     A  Cromwell  living,  he  a  Cromwell 
Died — most  bravely  fighting  to  the  last. 
Upon  the  news  being  brought,  I  hastened 
With  full  force,  and  found  my  boy — 
For  he  was  mine,  as  yours — all  England's — 
For  all  loved  him — honored  him. 

His  murderer 

Is  ours — is  to  die  ere  set  of  sun.     His  purpose 
Was  to  hold  your  Oliver  a  hostage  for  the  King. 
The  King  suggested  this  ;  so  say  these  lines. 

[Shoioiny  CROMWELL  the  papers. 

CROMWELL. 

In  Charles's  hand  !     Give  me  the  warrant ; 
Blood  will  have  blood.     He,  who  slew  the  son 
Can  have  no  mercy  at  the  father's  hand. 

[Signs  the  Warrant;  then  kneels  by  the  bier. 
My  son  1  my  son  ! 

TABLEAU. 

Curtain  Falls. 

~\ 

END  OF  ACT  LLL 


64  CROMWELL.  [ACT    IV. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE   FIRST. 

The  House  of  Commons. — The  Statue  of  CHARLES  thrown  down,  and  on 
its  pedestal  written,  4i  The  Tyrant,  the  last  of  the  Kings,  is  gone." — In 
session. 

BEADSHAW  AND  GRIMSHAWE  advance, 

BEADSHAW. 

So  amazement  sits  upon  the  land,  and  discontent 
Broods  everywhere. 

GEIMSHAWB. 

'Twas  thus  that  Cromwell, 
Who  now  is  away  in  Ireland  in  our  service^ 
Told  us  it  would  be,  and  charged  upon  us 
Moderation. 

BRADSHAW. 

He  signed"  the  warrant  for  King  Charles's  death. 

GRIMSHAWE. 

Who  had  not  done  the  same,  like  circumstanced  ? 
Open  and  secret  threats — letters    anonymous — his    son 
thus  sacrificed. 

BRADSHAW. 

He  who  foresaw  the  storm,  should  best  know 
How  to  still  it. 

A  resolution  has  passed  the  Commons, 
That  as  the  Lords  seceded  during  the  trial 
Of  their  King,  so  henceforth  we  shnll  make 
No  more  addresses  to  them,  nor  receive 
Aught  from  them;  that,  us  the  existence 
Of  the  Upper  House  is  not  only  useless, 


65 


SCENE    I.]  CROMWELL. 

But  dangerous,  it  ought  forthwith  to  be  abolished. 
I  :ilso  move  the  extinction  of  monarchical 
Government  in  England,  and  declare  it 
High  treason  to  proclaim,  or  any  otherwise 
Acknowledge  Charles  Stuart,  commonly  called 
Prince  of  Wales. 

Let  all  in  favor  now  in  silence  rise. 
Tliey  all  rise,  uncovered.] 

BRADSHAW. 

The  Lord  doth  smile  upon  our  acts. 
Arnen. 

ALL. 

Amen. 

BKADSHAW. 

Hereto,  then,  I  affix  our  great  seal,  whereon 
Is  inscribe  i — "  On  the  first  year  of  freedom, 
By  God's  blessing  restored,  1648." 
Let  now  a  Council  of  State  be  formed, 
To  consist  of  forty-one  members,  of  whom 
I  do  propose  that  Cromwell,  Fairfax,  St.  John, 
And  the  younger  Vane  shall  be ;  upon  them 
Shall  devolve  all  the  duties  which  formerly 
Attached  to  the  Crown  and  its  ministers 
In  the  two  Houses. 

GEIMSHAWE. 

I  would  add  you,  friend  Bradshaw, 
To  the  same,  and  now  do  put  it  to  the  vote. 

SPEAKER. 

All  in  its  favor  rise.  {.They  rise. 

Our  Government  is  formed,  and  we  adjourn.        \Exeunt. 


66  CROMWELL.  [ACT  iv. 

SCENE   SECOND. 
Whitehall. 

LADY  CROMWELL,  LADY  ALICE  LAMBERT,  LADY 
ELIZABETH  CROMWELL. 

LADY  ALICE. 

Dear  Lady  Cromwell,  hast  thou  no  news  from  Ireland  ? 
Some  three  months  have  already  passed ; 
No  tidings  could  be  trusted  from  your  Lord 
And  mine. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

No  news  direct,  but  rumors  of  success ; 
Success  such  as  has  ever  crowned 
Our  Cromwell's  arms.     Come,  my  fair  Elizabeth, 
Thy  song,  thy  voice,  should  be  attuned  to  joyful  measures, 
Thou  peerless  child  of  greatness. 

LADY     ELIZABETH. 

Nay,  of  griefs ! 

There  is  no  balm  in  gold  or  grandeur 
To  the  wounded  heart ;  mother,  I  have  not  sung 
For  months,  except  his  dirge. 

LADY   CROMWELL. 

Fie,  fie  !  why  must  thou  be 
A  puling  girl,  and  weep  for  thy  boy  lover, 
Forgetful  of  the  greatness  that  surrounds  thee  ? 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

Mother,  thou  hast  crossed  o'er  the  stream 
Upon  whose  bosom  Love's  bark  floats,  and  left 
Its  flowery  banks  for  the  thick  chaparral, 
Where  the  acactus,  with  its  ororgeous  hues, 

'  O          O  ' 

Hides  the  sharp  stings  await  the  venturous  foot. 


SCENE    II.]  CROMWELL.  67 

This  gorgeous  grandeur  blinds  your  eye  sedate ; 
Fear  lest  its  dazzling  glories  lead  to  ruin. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

Thou  bird  of  evil  omen !  yet  most  fair 
Of  my  fair  brood,  why  flew  the  barb  from  the  sole  quiver 
Could  most  deeply  wound,  that  pierced  thy  bosom — 
A  wound  must  rankle,  never  to  be  healed  by  him  ? 
N"ay !  cheer  thee,  child ;  there  are  a  hundred  heroes 
Woo  thy  hand  ;  ay,  titled,  and  with  wide  domain, 
Thou  shouldst  be  mother  to  a  race  of  men ; 
I  would  be  grandam  to  the  sweetest  crew 
That  ever  revelled  o'er  a  gay  parterre. 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

You  might  have  been  grandam  to  a  long  line 
Of  kings ! 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

And  will  be  yet. 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

The  dream  was  to  my  father,  and  no  more. 
Attendant  enters. \ 

PATIENCE. 
Madam,  some  gentlemen  await  on  you. 

LADY     CROMWELL. 

My  Lady !     Girl — will  you  never  learn  ?  admit  them ; 
Daughter,  receive  them  graciously. 

BRADSHAW,  GRIMSHAWE,  and  MARTIN  enter.] 
Ah,  worthy  Master  Bradshaw,  and  my  friends, 
Grimshawe  and  Martin ;  your  smiles  betoken  news — 
Good  news  ;  haste  give  it  me ! 

LADY    ALICE. 

And  me ;  for  I  am  trembling  with  loving  eagerness. 


68  CRO.MWELL.  [ACT    IV. 

BRADSHAW. 

Temperance,  fair  dame,  is  next  to  chastity 
In  maiden  hearts. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

Pray  ye,  what  says  my  Lord  ? 

BRADSHAW. 

That  Ireland  is  ours — Drogheda,  Wexford, 
Duncannon,  Waterford,  Estionage,  Carrick, 
And  Passage  Fort  are  won.     The  first-mentioned 
Pour,  with  loss  of  life ;  the  last,  surrendered. 
All  of  your  friends  are  well ;  Lord  Broghill 
Did  good  service  to  our  cause,  and  the  wild  Irish 
Fell. 

LADY    ALICE. 

It  was  Lord  Cromwell's  voice  that  won  him  over. 

LADY    ELIZABETH. 

My  father's  voice  was  ever  wisest. 

BRADSHAW. 

Sweet  child 

Thou  sayest  well,  and  soon  may  thank  him  for  us  all ; 
I'd  have  no  sweeter  spokesman  than  yourself, 
To  render  him  the  homage  of  our  hearts. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

Why  soon  ?     Surely  the  war  is  not  yet  over. 

BRADSHAW. 

His  services  :ire  needed  nearer  home ; 

The  Parliament  have  summoned  him  ; 

Our  General  Ireton  is  with  him  now, 

And  well  may  take  command,  though  Cromwell  has 

Full  'liberty  to  appoint  whom  best  it  pleases  him. 

The  Council  waits,  and  we  must  take  our  leave. 


SCENE   II.]  CROMWELL. 


69 


LADY    CROMWELL. 

Farewell,  gentlemen.     My  thanks  to  you. 

[Exeunt  Gentlemen. 

Sweet  Lizzy,  see — I  am  mother  of  great  men, 
If  not  of  kings  :  "  Our  General  Ireton !" 
I  would  that  Richard  loved  an  active  life, 
Not  pondering  o'er  dull  tomes — a  carpet  knight. 
Alas !  my  Oliver !     He  was  a  hero  from  his  birth. 

A.  trumpet  and  peoples  cheers. 

LADY   ALICE. 

Hark  ye,  the  shouts !     It  is  our  General  comes. 

CROMWELL  enters,  saluting  each. 
My  honored  wife,  my  Lady,  and  my  love — 
How  glorious  shine  your  beauties  at  this  hour ; 
A  joyous  greeting  for  your  truant  Lord. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

Who  should  have  come  with  lute  upon  his  arm. 
Such  sweet  words  on  his  lips.     How  fare  you, 
My  dear  Lord  ? 

CROMWELL. 

A  little  weary,  though  right  well. 
How  does  our  honored  Lambert's  lovely  wife  ? 
He  bade  me  bear  you  this.  [Kissing  her. 

I  need  not  ask ; 

A  garden  of  sweetest  flowers  by  moonlight  seen 
Scarce  rivals  you. 

LADY    ALICE. 

Nay,  pardon  me,  but  rather 
By  the  light  of  yon  bright  orb,  just  resting 
Now  upon  the  throne  of  day — a  herald 
Unto  thee,  our  General  and  our  Lord,  it  shows  thy  way. 


70  CROMWELL.  [ACT    IV. 

CROMWELL. 

Be  but  a  harbinger  of  peace,  and  I  shall  thank 
You,  sweet  one. 

Turning  to  Elizabeth."] — My  fairest  child, 
Where  is  thy  smile — thy  kiss  ? 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  Tcissing  him, 
Theije,  my  great  father — pardon  me ! 

CROMWELL. 

What  means 

This  coldness  in  you,  who  ever  rushed 
Into  my  arms — or  stood  on  tiptoe,  eager 
To  embrace,  when  stayed  in  your  approach  ? 
What !  can  it  be  that  I  am  grown  so  proud 
And  great  (if  I  am,  I  did  not  know  it), 
That  even  my  best-loved  daughter  is  awe-filled  ? 
If  so — away  with  honors,  glories,  fame,  and  power — 
I'd  rather  rule  by  love  than  majesty.  [Turns  away. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

Nay,  she  has  grown  timid,  Sir,  of  late ; 

She  sings  no  more — nor  smiles. 

Aside  to  ELIZABETH.]     Thou  foolish  girl ! 

CROMWELL. 

I  see  it  all. 

Farewell,  domestic  joys — the  innocent  joy« 
Of  home ! 

My  generalship  I  purchased 
With  my  dear  son's  blood  ;  my  country's  safety, 
With  my  daughter's  love ! 
Why,  what  a  bawble  is  aggrandizement ! 
The  serpent  eye  of  Jealousy — the  soft  voice  of  Deceit — 
The  blandishment*  of  men  who  fhvors  seek — 
Eye-service  everywhere — but  nothing  from  the  heart ! 


C^NE   III.]  CROMWELL.  Vl 

I  had  it  once — all  that  the  heart  could  ask : 

My  son's,  my  daughter's.    Charles  stole  his  life  ; 

His  son,  her  love — I  know  not  which  the  weightiest  loss: 

Hers,  'tis  a  lighter  grief  to  miss  him  here,  a  warrior 

Tn  heaven — than  see  her  like  a  delicate  flower 

Lose  her  bloom,  and  perish  leaf  by  leaf — 

My  girl !    My  boy  !  my  brave,  my  noble  boy, 

My  Oliver — why  should  I  weep  ?     He  serves 

In  heaven  now,  while  I  am  serving  Heaven 

Upon  earth. 

I  must  attend  upon  the  Council. 
Exeunt  Ladies  the  other.]  [Exit  one  side. 


SCENE   THIRD. 

Grand  Council-Chamber,  "Westminster — Counsellors  seated — A  Trumpet. 
BRADSHAW. 

Hark  to  the  trump  !     Our  General  comes ; 
He  has  proved  himself  a  gallant  officer — 
The  General  of  the  age. 

GRIMSHAWE. 

As  he  has  proved 
Best  Counsellor  in  our  cause — 

Welcome  unto  our  General ! 

As  CROMWELL  enters,  with  Officers  and  armed  Attendants^ 
the  Counsellors  rise. 

CROMWELL. 

Thanks,  my  good  masters — fellow-Counsellors! 
Thanks  for  this  welcome  of  my  humble  self, — 
The  honored  instrument  of  Heaven's  will, 
To  whom  all  honor,  power,  glory,  is  given. 
They-  all  uncover  their  .heads. .] 


2  CROMWELL.  [ACT  TV. 

BRADSHAW. 

On  earth  as  heaven.     Amen. 

CROMWELL. 

Our  arms  victorious — Ireton,  my  son, 

I  have  left  in  Ireland,  supreme. 

In  all  my  sieges,  battles,  storms,  assaults, 

I  deemed  that  mercy  best  would  be  consulted 

By  speediest  termination  to  our  war, 

And  therefore  pray  ye  think,  if  you  would  harshly  judge 

My  course, 

"  How  much  the  evils  attend 

Upon  a  few  instances  of  severity 

In  the  outset,  are  compensated 

By  the  cutting  offlong  years  of  obstinate  resistance." 

Finding  the  Irish  such  a  wild  and  savage  race, 

I  felt  that  I  was  forced  to  string  myself 

Even  to  acts  of  seeming  cruelty  and  horror ; 

Their  arms  not  turned  upon  their  foes, 

They  turn  upon  each  other — with  scarce  a  cause  of  wrong. 

GRIMSHAWE. 

In  Henry  the  Second's  reign,  Cambrenses 
Wrote — "that  the  only  way  to  civilize 
The  Irish  was  to  exterminate  them 
And  seize  their  estates." 

CROMWELL. 

Nay,  my  good  masters ! 
I  would  not  have  that  Emerald  Isle, 
The  great  capital  out  of  which  our  debts 
Are  paid,  our  services  rewarded,  our  acts 
Of  bounty  performed.     Win  them  to  peace 
And  love,  by  gentlest  arts;  now  that  they,  knowing, 
Fear  your  power,  teach  them>that  'tis  not  your  intention 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  73 

To  extirpate  the  nation — for  now  in  flight 
They  seek  a  refuge  from  their  wrongs  ;  at  least 
Some  fifty  thousand  have  already  left  the  land. 
I  would  that  they  were  taught  the  peaceful  arts, 
Then  plenty  soon  would  follow  in  their  train, 
Poverty  be  a  stranger  to  that  land,  most  blessed 
On  earth,  and  virtue  reign  lord  paramount. 

BRADSHAW. 

We  will  debate  on  this,  and  act  as  you  may  counsel. 
But  now  we  have  received  news  from  Scotland : 
They  have  proclaimed  young  Charles  their  King, 
And  King  of  England,  Ireland,  and  France. 

CROMWELL. 

But  have  they  made  him  such  ?     Best  as  it  is — 
Better  that  now  while  our  troops  are  flushed 
With  victory.     Trouble  not,  my  masters  ; 
We  will  dispel  their  force  as  sun  the  mist. 

BRADSHAW. 

Thou  dauntless  man — now  learn  what  for  thy  services 
The  House  appoints.  [CROMWELL  bows. 

The'  Palace  of  St.  James  thy  residence, 
With  such  attendants  as  beseemeth  thee 
And  them;  large  grants  of  land 

To  their  victorious  General, 
Most  full  approval  of  your  every  step, 
And,  with  entire  confidence  in  your  ability 
And  faithfulness,  they,  on  behalf  of  all  England, 
Give  their  thanks. 

CROMWELL. 

Nay,  my  good  friends,  Whitehall  is  well  enough. 

BRADSHAW. 

For  you,  'tis  true,  who  love  the  tented  field. 
4 


74  CROMWELL.  [ACT  iv. 

CROMWELL. 

Nay,  would  I  were  out  of  the  trade  of  war, 
And  here  in  council  with  you  at  Westminster. 

BRADSHAW. 

Till  then  thy  wife  and  children  are  our  most  valued 

guests ; 

While  you  are  caring  for  the  State  away, 
Here  must  we  guard  them  cheerily. 

We  have  sent 

To  learn  Lord  Fairfax's  will  as  to  the  conduct 
Of  the  war  in  Scotland,  and  he  declines 
Assuming  the  command — 'tis  thought,  at  instance 
Chiefly  of  his  Presbyterian  wife ;  but  says 
That  should  the  Scots  England  invade,  he  would  be  ready 
To  lay  down  his  life. 

CROMWELL,  aside. 

How  all  things  tend  to  my  advancement ; 
I  could  devise  naught  better. 

Aloud.]     "  Notwithstanding  his  unwillingness,  I  pray 
Ye  may  continue  him  General  of  your  army, 
For  I  would  rather  serve  under  him,  than  command 
The  greatest  army  in  all  England." 

LUDLOW. 

Fearing  your  views 

Were  such,  we've  sent  a  committee  to  advise 

With  him.  [CKOMWELL  going. 

I  pray  you  do  not  withdraw  yourself, 
Nor  yet,  in  compliment  and  humility, 
Obstruct  the  public  service  by  your  refusal. 
Stay  yet  awhile,  and  learn  what  Lord  Fairfax 
Further  says ;  our  committee  come. 
COMMITTEE  enter. 

Still  on  his  purpose  bent, 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  75 

Lord  Fairfax's  Secretary  at  the  door  awaits 
To  surrender  his  commission,  if  we 
Think  fit  to  receive  it. 

CROMWELL. 

Did  ye  remind 

Him  that  the  Scots  had  invaded  England 
Since  the  recognition  of  the  solemn  League 
And  Covenant,  *ind  in  direct  contravention 
Of  its  letter  as  well  as  spirit ;  that  now 
They  meditate  another  inroad,  under  the  banners 
Of  Charles  Stuart,  whom,  without  the  Commonwealth's 

consent, 

They  have  proclaimed  Sovereign  of  the  three  kingdoms ; 
And  therefore  if  there  must  be  war,  'twere  best 
To  choose  the  enemy's  country  for  the  scene, 
Than  permit  a  hostile  army  to  penetrate 
Into  the  heart  of  this  nation,  already  wasted 
By  the  ravages  of  our  own  civil  dissensions  ? 

COMMITTEE. 

We  did,  my  Lord.     He  still  refused. 
CROMWELL. 

Then,  my  masters,  if  ye  do  receive  surrender 

Of  his  commission,  which  I  would  counsel 

Ye  temperately  to  consider,  though  /know  not 

What  else  to  do,  since  he  will  die  to  all  his  former  gloryj 

"  And  become  the  monument  of  his  own  name,"* 

Which  every  day'll  wear  out,  there  should 

For  his  past  services  recompense  be  made 

Aside.]     (Their  future  General  may  require  the  like), 
A  liberal  recompense. 

BRADSHAW. 

So  let  it  be ;  receive  we  the  commission, 

*  Cromwell's  words. 


76  CROMWELL.  [ACT  iv. 

And  grant  to  him  two  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

LUDLOW. 
Two  thousand  pounds ! — scarce  enough,  my  friend ;  for 

you  or  us 
It  would  suffice. 

CROMWELL. 

Greatness,  my  masters,  brings 
Great  charges  in  its  train ;  make  it  five  thousand  pounds 

a  year ; 
Now,  I  pray  ye,  excuse  me.  [Retires  one  side. 

BRADSHAW. 

Our  General  counsels  well ;  so  let  it  be. 
Admit  his  Secretary. 

Secretary  enters.]       Young  Sir,  we  do  accept 
Surrender  of  your  Lord's  commission  ; 
Bear  this  to  him,  with  our  best  thanks — 
A  settlement  upon  him  for  his  past  services 
Of  five  thousand  pounds  a  year :  so  would  our  General 

Cromwell. 

This  being  disposed  of,  now  I  would  propose 
That  our  Lieutenant-General  be  Captain-General 
Of  all  the  land  forces;  that  his  commission 
Be  instantly  drawn  up ;  and  that  the  Council  of  State 
Hasten  the  preparations  for  the  Northern  expedition. 

ALL. 
Let  it  be  so. 

BRADSHAW. 

The  commission  is  prepared ;  I  will  affix 
The  seal.   Captain-General,  I  salute  you — now — my  friend ! 
CROMWELL  bows  to  them,  wJien  they  retire,  find  then  ad 
vances  with  commission  in  his  hand. 

CROMWELL. 

Captain-General  of  all  the  land  forces  of  England, 


SCE7STE    III.]  CROMWELL.  77 

Then  supreme  ruler,  under  Heaven,  of  the  realm  ! 
Why  am  I  raised  to  all  this  honor  ?    I  sought  it  not. 
It  must  be  that  I  am  by  high  Providence 
Selected  for  the  accomplishment  of  great  purposes  ; 
"May  it  not  be  as  instrument  of  the  will  divine, 
As  writ  in  Holy  Scripture,  which  shadows  forth 
.The  triumphs  and  felicities  of  the  Messiah's  kingdom?" 
LUDLOW  enters.]     Ha!  Ludlow,  my  friend! 
Aside.]     I  do  not  understand  this  man. 

LUDLOW. 

General. 

CROMWELL. 

Thou  art  cold — why  so  ?     Hast  thou  suspicion 
Of  my  integrity,  as  servant  of  the  public  ? 
Dost  thou  suppose  that  I  would  be  their  master, 
Seeing  I  am  grown  so  great  in  power  ? 
Believe  me,  I  am  but  Heaven's  instrument.  ' 

LTJDLOW. 
Enough,  enough !   I  should  not  doubt  you. 

CROMWELL. 

No,  you  should  be  the  very  last  to  do  so. 
Incumbent  it  maybe  on  me  many  things  to  do, 
Even  extraordinary  in  the  judgment  of  some  men, 
Who,  now  opposing,  would  bring  ruin  on  themselves, 
On  me,  as  well  as  on  the  public  cause. 
But  here  I  do  declare  that  all  I  do 
Shall  be  but  lor  the  people's  good,  for  whose  welfare 
I  am  prepared  to  sacrifice  my  life. 


LUDLOW. 
We  may  not  doubt  you,  General,  in  this. 


78  CROMWELL.  [ACT  iv. 

CROMWELL. 

You  should  not,  with  the  past  proofs  you  have ; 

All  my  desires  are  to  settle  the  nation 

In  a  free  and  equal  commonwealth. 

There  are  no  other  means  to  keep  the  old  rulers  out ; 

And,  in  all  reverence  and  humility,  I  must  say 

I  feel  it  is  the  Lord's  design  His  people 

To  deliver  from  every  burden. 

HlS  WILL  AND  WISE  DECREES  TO  ME  I  READ 

In  "  that  the  Lord  at  thy  ri<;ht  hand  shall  strike 
Through  kings  in  the  day  of  His  wrath ; 
He  shall  fill  the  places  with  the  dead  bodies  ; 
He  shall  wound  the  heads  over  many  countries ; 
The  people  shall  be  willing  in  the  day 
Of  thy  power — thou  art  a  priest  forever." 
There  have  I  my  commission.     I  will  reform 
The  clergy  and  the  law  ;  the  sons  of  Zeruiah 
Are  still 'too  strong  for  us. 

Wilt  thou  not  aid  me 
To  fulfil  God's  will  ?     I  need  the  services 
Of  such  as  thou,  godly  and  gallant  gentlemen. 

LUDLOW. 
Most  gladly,  General,  if  in  God's  service. 

CROMWELL. 

It  is ;  wilt  thou  accept  the  Lieutenant-Generalship 
Of  Ireland? 

LUDLOW. 

I  will — most  sensible  of  the  honor 
You  now  do  me. 

CROMWELL. 

Then  hasten  preparation. 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  V9 

Ireton  has  returned,  and  I  would  you  were  there. 
Farewell.  [Exit  LTTDLOW. 

He  may  be  troublesome.     I  would  remove — 
During  my  absence  in  the  North,  where,  should  reverse 
Befall  me — the  more  violent  republicans, 
Of  whom  he  is  one ;  they  might  take  advantage, 
And  place  the  power  of  the  State  in  other  hands. 
Oh,  curse  of  greatness !— I  do  already  feel 
That  I  have  more  to  dread  from  former  friends 
Than  enemies  avowed. 

The  army  I  will  make 
Subservient  to  my  ulterior  plans ; 
I'll  separate  the  interests  of  the  soldiers 
From  those  of  their  old  commanders  ; 
I  will  dismiss  many  of  the  "  godly  party," 
And  give  their  places  to  men  who  make 
Arms  their  trade. 

While  Fairfax  stands  an  empty  name,  I'll  mould  the  army 
To  my  mind — "  weed  out  the  godly,"  they  are 
Bad  fighting  men,  and  fill  their  rooms  with  such 
As  make  no  question  for  conscience'  sake  ;* 
But  I  must  do  it  gently,  and  unperceived 
By  the  eyes  of  men.     I  need  no  "  agitators  ;" 
They  are  as  two-edged  swords — I  must  not  cast 
Them  only  to  one  side,  but  have  them  under  foot, 
And,  if  needs  be,  grind  them  into  powder ; 
So  shall  I  distribute  all  my  fanatics  far  apart 
la  different  regiments. 

We  will  have 
No  convocations  now  of  saints. 

IKETON  enters.']     Ha,  Ireton,  what  news  ? 

IRETON. 

Bad — as  ever. 

*  Cromwell's  words. 


80  CROMWELL.  [ACT   IV. 

CROMWELL. 

Give  it  me. 

IRETOX. 

Three  of  our  bravest  captains  are  arraigned 
For  a  conspiracy  against  your  life, 
And  now  are  before  the  Council  of  State,  in  the 
Adjoining  chamber. 

CROMWELL. 

My  life  !  what  would  they  with  my  life  ? 
They  value  it  at  more  than  I  do,  if  they'd  steep 
Their  souls  in  perdition — their  good  names 
In  infamy. 

Who  are  they,  and  their  cause  for  it  ? 

IRETON. 

Rich,  Staines,  and  Watson — they  have  confessed 
That  in  a  dream  they  were  advised  to  it, 
In  words  of  Scriptural  cant. 

CROMWELL. 

In  the  adjoining  chamber, 

Do  you  say  ?     Not  yet  condemned  ?     I'll  make 
An  example  of  them  for  all  time.     Come  with  me. 

[Exeunt. 


SCEXE  FOURTH. 
Room  adjoining  Council-Chamber. 

RICH,  STAINES,  awe?  WATSON,  before  the  Coun<-!L 

CROMWELL  enters  with  IRETON. 
What  meaneth  this,  my  good  masters — and  ye, 
My  well-tried  captains,  conspiracy  against  my  life ! 
Why  would  ye  take  it  before  the  eyes  of  men  ? 


SCEXE    IV.]  CEOMWELL. 

To  who  might  have  had  it  tens  of  thousand  times, 
Unseen  by  all  save  the  unseen  eye  of  God  ? 
My  body-guard,  ever  in  the  closest  fight ; 
Ye  easily  had  mistook  me  for  a  foe  ; 
My  sentinels,  at  silent  hour  of  night, 
When  all  about  me  slept  save  ye  yourselves — 
Ay,  and  my  very  cup-bearer  wert  thou,  my  Rich, 
When  I  was  faint  at  Naseby — fie,  fie,  Sirs ! 
Shame  on  ye,  pitiful,  sneaking,  and  poor  knaves 
That  ye  are  !  see  how  ungrately  ye  had  been  to  me — 
How  treacherous,  cowardly  to  yourselves  ! 
What  would  ye  further  with  them,  Sirs  ? 

BRADSHAW. 

A  hempen  cord ! 

CEOMWELL. 

Your  pardon,  my  good  Bradshaw, 
And  my  thanks,  my  friends,  in  that  you  deem 
My  life  worth  three — with  your  good  leave,  I  have 
A  condign  punishment  for  them. 

BEADSUAW. 
Pronounce  it  thou — against  you  their  offence. 

CEOMWELL. 

'Tis  this  :  that  ye  be  taken  hence — what !  do  ye  start 
And  tremble  ?  ye  poor  weak  fools  !  do  ye  fear 
Death  now  ?  ye  who  ne'er  knew  fear  before  ? 
I  have  oft  marked  ye  well,  Sirs — I  say,  shall  be  taken 
Hence — taken  to  my  troops — all  your  bonds  loosed — - 
Conscience  awakened  from  this  dreadful  lethargy, 
Ye  shall  your  deed  anticipated  see 
In  all  its  naked  horror — upon  the  rack— 
Ye  tremble — see  what  mean  things  a  guilty  conscience 
Makes,  e'en  of  the  stoutest  and  the  bravest  hearts  ; — 
4* 


81 


82  CROMWELL.  [ACT   V. 

Upon  the  rack,  I  say — ay,  upon  the  rack 

Of  conscience  ye  shall  lie — a  living  testimony 

Of  my  judgment,  and  show  unto  the  world 

The  vengeance  Cromwell  takes  upon  his  private  foes. 

But  woe  to  those  whom  he  shall  find  the  State's. 

Go  hence,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of  this. 

When  that  ye  deem  my  country  needs  my  life, 

Come  then  and  take  it — 'tis  freoly  hers. 

Release  their  bonds. 

BRADSHAW. 

Thou  great  and  glorious  soul, 
The  State  would  thou  shouldst  have  a  private  guard. 

CROMWELL. 

I  have  it,  friends  ;  but  in  the  private  thoughts, 
The  secret  heart  of  every  Englishman. 
With  God  upon  my  side,  these  canting  fools 
Will  prove  a  better  bulwark  than  ten  thousand  guards. 
Now  join  in  prayer  and  thanks  to  Heaven,  my  friends, 
Then  will  I  unto  Scotland. 

[  They  kneel,  and  curtain  falls. 


END  OF  ACT  IV. 


SCENE    I.]  CROMWELL.  .    83 


ACT  V. 

SCENE   FIRST. 
Council-Chamber. 

BRADSHAW,  GRJMSHAW,  and  MARTIN. 

MARTIN. 
What  news  to-day  from  Cromwell  ? 

BRADSHAW. 

Our  foes  dispersed  at  Derwent,  Dunbar, 

Indeed,  where'er  he  met  them ;  at  Edinburgh, 

He  lies  sick  with  a  grievous  fever ; 

Two  skilful  doctors  to  his  aid  I've  sent, 

And,  by  God's  providence,  I  trust  he  may  be  saved. 

The  State  can  spare  him  not ;  though  here  he  writes, 

"  Indeed,  my  Lord,  your  service  needs  not  me — 

I'm  a  poor  creature,  have  been  but  a  dry  bone, 

And  am  still  an  upnrofitable  servant 

To  my  Master  and  to  you."     But,  Heaven 

Be  praised  !  our  Goddard  writes,  he  mends ; 

And  the  same  hour  brings  advice  that  the  young  Charles 

In  arms  towards  England  comes. 

GRIMSHAW. 

And  this  from  Cromwell ; 
Which  doth  intimate  that  all  his  forces 
Withdrawn  beyond  the  Forth,  temptation  thus 
Is  thrown  in  Charles's  way,  to  confide  himself 
And  cause  to  the  English  nation,  whose  loyalty 
He  would  test. 

He  our  General  further  entreats  that  we, 


84  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v 

The  Council  of  State,  collect  what  force 

We  can  without  loss  of  time,  and  give  Charles  check 

Until  he  shall  o'ertake  him.     Lambert,  with  the  cavalry, 

Is  sent  to  join  brave  Harrison  at  Newcastle, 

To  watch  their  motions,  and  straiten  them  on  their  way,. 

Though  not  to  risk  a  battle. 

Enter  an  officer^  Ha !  what  news  ? 

OFFICER. 

Major-General  Massy  and  the  Earl  of  Derby 
Have  been  repulsed  by  Lilburn  at  Wigan, 
And  Charles  has  entered  Worcester,  where 
He  has  solemnly  been  proclaimed  by  the  Mayor, 
Amid  the  loud  acclamations  of  the  gentlemen 
Of  the  county. 

BBADSHAW. 

Charles  at  Worcester ! — haste  ye  and  rouse  our  friends  ; 

Bid  them  use  all  speed  to  meet  our  Cromwell, 

And  aid  him  in  his  "  crowning  victory  ;" 

For  such  shall  this  fight  be.     Haste  ye,  and  urge  on 

Our  supplies  and  men.     Haste  all !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE   SECOND. 
Troop  before  "Worcester. — Hour,  Daybreak. 

Troops  enter  and  form  in  line  of  battle,  crying,  "Long  live 
the  Commonwealth  of  England!1'  "Long  live  CROM 
WELL  !"  who  enters  with  IRETOX  and  OFFICERS. 

CROMWELL. 

Thanks,  thanks,  my  brave  friends  and  fellow-soldiers. 
What  news,  my  Ireton  ? 


SCENE    II.]  CROMWELL.   .  85 

IRETON. 

The  Bridge  of  Upton,  held  by  General  Massy, 
Lambert  has  carried  against  fearful  odds, 
Leaving  their  General  wounded  on  the  field. 

TROOPS. 
Praise  be  to  God !— long  live  our  gallant  Lambert ! 

IRETON. 

Fleetwood  has  forced  the  passage  of  the  Team. 
A  bridge  of  boats  over  the  Severn  at  Bernhill 
Thrown;  at  Powick,  too,  a  fierce  attack  was  begun, 
And  pike  to  pike  they  fought  at  set  of  sun. 

CROMWELL. 

Day  dawns,  my  troops — nay,  'tis  the  sun  himself; 

[Sun  breaks  through  clouds. 
Nature  has  veiled  our  brave  intents ; 
So  "  let  the  Lord  arise,  and  let  His  enemies 
Be  scattered."* 

Martial  Music;  cannon  at  first  near,  then  more  distant. 
TJiey  charge  upon  the  enemy  /  fresh  troops  come  on  the 
stage,  and  charge  after  charge. 
On,  my  brave  troops !  on  !  on  ! 

They  break — their  King  doth  turn — Ha !  ha !  brave  boys ! 
I  profess  they  run.     The  victory  is  ours ; 
The  Commonwealth  is  safe.     Let  all  our  thoughts 
Tend  to  His  honor,  who  hath  wrought 
So  great  salvation,  and  let  not  wantonness 
And  pride  follow  this  crowning  mercy. 

OFFICER  enters  and  presents  papers. 
OFFICER. 

From  the  Council  of  State  to  their  General  Cromwell. 

[Retires. 

*  Psalm  IxviiL 


6  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 

CROMWELL. 

The  fight  is  fought ;  the  victory  is  gained  ; 

The  Scots  subdued;  their  Charles  the  Second  fled; 

What  now  remains  to  do  ? — Much,  much — there  is 

A  war  within  this  heart,  far  fiercer  raging 

Than  all  outward  foes.     Down,  fell  ambition, 

With  your  fiend-born  crew,  which  feast  upon  its  members 

Ere  'twill  die ! 

Now,  as  I  have  in  arms, 
So  must  I  seek  in  peaceful  arts  to  raise 
The  power  of  England. 

Looking  at  the  papers.]     They  do  salute  me  here 
As  though  I  were  their  King,  and  would  escort 
Me  in  great  state  to  London.     My  home,  a  palace — 
And  in  each  address  greet  ray  ears  with  loftier  adulation 
Than  e'er  was  lavished  on  the  scion 
Of  an  hundred  kings ! 

IBETON  enters.']      Ha !  Ireton — 'twas  bravely  fought — • 
A  word  with  you. 

The  power  of  Parliament 
Must  be  lowered ! — its  duration  limited — 
All  political  offences  committed 
Before  Worcester's  fight  must  be  forgiven, 
Except  some  certain  cases. 

IRETON. 

This  is  well  thought ;  'twill  make  you  friends. 
It,  is  decided  Parliament  be  dissolved 
Three  years  from  this.  [Exit. 

CROMWELL. 

Three  years ! — but  see,  here  are 
Enter  WHITLOCK,  WHALLY,  DESBOROUGH.] 
Our  friends.     Ha !  Whitlock,  Whally,  Desborough— 


SCENE    II.]  CEOMWELL.  87 

What  think  ye,  Gentlemen — 
Were  it  best  to  perpetuate  the  Commonwealth 
On  fixed  principles,  or  re-establish  a  mixed  form 
Of  monarchical  government  ? 

WHALLY. 

General,  our  friends, 
The  army,  will  not  have  a  Monarchy. 

WHITLOCK. 

I  would  advise  revival  of  the  ancient  Constitution — 
King,  Lords,  and  Commons — 'tis  better  adapted 
Than  a  Republic  to  the  laws,  the  habits, 
The  feelings  of  Englishmen. 

CEOMWELL. 

Well  spoken,  learned  friend  , 
But  pray,  whom  would  you  recommend  unto  the  throne  ? 

WHITLOCK. 

Charles  Stuart  or  the  Duke  of  York,  provided 
They  submit  to  our  conditions. 

CEOMWELL. 

Aside.]  Humph!      [Aloud.]     Methinks 

They  never  will.     'Tis  true,  somewhat 
Of  a  monarchical  government  would  be  most  effectual, 
If  it  could  be  established  with  safety 
To  the  liberties  of  the  people  as  Englishmen 
And  Christians. 

Methinks  I  have  heard  you  do  propose 
Reduction  of  the  army  and  of  their  pay. 
By  your  leave,  deem  you  this  wise  ? — pray  you, 
Weigh  it  well,  as  also  in  all  other  retrenchments. 
Rather  let  speedy  and  effectual  means 
Be  taken  for  the  propagation  of  the  Gospel, 


88  CKOMWELL.  [ACT   1 

And  all  arrears  due  the  army  be  paid  forthwith. 
Remember  you  their  services  and  privations 
In  the  course  of  a  long  war. 

See  ye  not,  my  friends, 

That  this  paltry  junto  of  statesmen  who  preside 
At  Westminster,  the  miserable  remains 
Of  that  illustrious  body  first  met  in  1640, 
Actuated  by  no  feelings  but  the  love 
Of  power  and  emolument,  intend 
To  keep  the  precious  fruits  of  victory 
To  themselves,  in  their  own  hands,  and  condemn 
The  army  to  poverty  and  degrading  insignificance  ? 
'Twould  be  unjust,  disgraceful,  that  men 
Who  never  saw  the  tented  field,  nor  suffered 
In  the  long  campaign,  should  enjoy 
Those  things  for  which  the  army  have  so  often 
Shed  their  blood.     Let  them  now  be  in  possession, 
They  never  will  resign ;  but,  in  defiance 
Of  the  people  and  our  soldiery,  exclude 
From  all  share  in  the  government  every  man 
Of  truly  patriotic  principles. 

Whally,  pray  you  draw  up  a  petition 
To  this  effect,  and  vindicate  your  rights. 

WHALLY. 

We  will. 

DESBOBOUGH. 

Ay,  and  hasten  to  present  it. 

[JZxeunt  WHALLY  and  DESBOKOUGH. 

WHITLOCK. 

General,  may  not  this  course  be  deemed, 
To  say  the  least,  hasty  and  unconstitutional, 
Thus  to  address  the  Parliament — in  either  hand 
The  sword  or  the  Petition  ? 


SCENT:  n.]  CROMWELL.  89 

CROMWELL. 

You,  Whitlock,  are  .1  lawyer, 
Who  by  your  code  must  work  ;  men  of  the  world 
And  soldiers,  let  their  natures  teach. 
You  are  a  very  faithful,  most  efficient  Lord  Commissioner, 
But,  I  fear  much,  look  not  into  the  root  of  the  times. 
You  have  met  o.ir  officers,  learner!  their  views — 
"  What  think  you,  if  a  man  should  take  upon  himself 
To  be  a  king ;  would  it  not  cure  all  ills  ?" 

WHITLOCK. 

The  remedy,  I  think,  were  worse  than  the  disease. 

* 

CBOMWELL. 

Why  think  you  so  ? 

WHITLOCK. 

As  to  your  own  person, 
The  litle  of  king  would  be  of  no  advantage. 
You  have  already  the  full  kingly  power. 
It  might  awaken  jealousies — besides, 
The  King  of  Scots  yet  lives  ;  the  people  look 
Upon  him  as  their  natural  King. 

CKOMWELL. 

The  King  of  Scots — [Asidel\ — why  died  he  not  at  Wor 
cester  ? 

WHITLOCK. 

I  would  propound  your  Excellency  should  send 

To  him,  and  have  a  private  treaty  with  him; 

Secure  yourself  and  friends  ;  make  you  and  your  posterity 

Forever  great — the  name  of  Cromwell  an  example 

For  all  time.     He  will  accept  any  condition, — 

Besides,  there  is  a  rumor  in  the  land, 

That  there's  a  link  binds  Charles  to  Cromwell's  House. 

You  have  a  daughter — pardon  me — most  fair; 


90  CROMWELL.  [ACT  Y. 

This  Charles  is  young,  and  once  did  consort  with  her — 

[CROMWELL  starts. 

Wherefore  not  wed  them  ?*  Then  your  right  to  rule, 
As  his  Prime  Minister,  no  man  could  dispute. 

CROMWELL. 

He  has  already  sought  my  daughter's  hand  ;f 
But  have  I  the  right  to  jeopard  my  dear  child's  peace, 
My  country's  honor  and  prosperity, 
By  trusting  one  so  profligate,  so  prodigal, 
So  lost  to  all  fair  fame  as  he  ? 

I  cannot  think  of  it. 

I  have  refused  her  hand.     Meantime,  I  would  suggest 
That  the  sovereign  power  be  placed 
In  the  hands  of  a  Commission  of  forty  persons, 
Chosen  from  the  Army,  the  Senate, 
And  the  Council  of  State.     What  think  you  of  this  ? 
Some  of  our  friends  do  counsel  it. 

WHITLOCK. 

I  fear 

'Twere  dangerous  to  dissolve  the  House ;  besides, 
Your  Excellency,  the  formation  of  the  proposed  Commis 
sion 
Is  quite  unconstitutional. 

CROMWELL. 

Ever  the  lawyer,  Whitlock. 

I  thank  you  for  your  friendship,  and  when  you  have 
Leisure  from  the  cares  of  state,  which  I  know 
Weigh  heavily  on  yon,  will  further  counsel  take. 
Good  day,  my  friend — my  honest  friend. 

[E.i'/'t  WHITLOCK. 

He  wed  my  daughter !     That  may  not  be. 
'Twas  by  my  act  his  father  died.     This  Whitiock 

*  Russell.  f  Pictorial  History  of  JOii-ylaud. 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  91 

Is  very  honest — the  spokesman  of  the  times. 

None  but  :i  Stuart  can,  it  seems,  be  kin*?. 

The  vision  said,  I  should  be  greatest  man,  but  did  not 

say  the  King! 
We'll  look  to  this. 

INGOLDSBY  enters^     Ha !  Ingoldsby,  my  friend ! 

INGOLDSBY. 

Advised  of  what  your  and  the  army's  feelings 

Are,  the  Commons  now  are  urging  through  the  Bill 

For  their  own  dissolution,  encumbered 

With  all  the  provisions  to  which  the  military  are  opposed. 

CROMWELL. 

,     Did  none  object  to  this  ?     Had  we  no  friends  there  ? 

INGOLDSBY. 

Harrison  most  sweetly  and  most  humbly 
Conjured  them  to  pause,  while  I  came  here 
To  counsel  you  to  act.     Your  presence  is  much 
Needed  there. 

CROMWELL. 

Thou  hast  well  done, — now  is  the  time 
To  act.     We'll  hasten  unto  Westminster. 
Cull  Colonel  Worsley  and  my  Guard.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  THIRD. 
House  of  Commons  in  session — "Westminster. 

CROMWELL''  enters  with  INGOLDSBY,  and  takes  his  seat  on 
one  of  the  outer  benches,  and  beckons  to  HARRISON. 

CROMWELL. 

Harrison,  I  judge  the  Parliament  now  ripe 
For  a  dissolution. 


92  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 

To  ST.  JOHN*.]       My  friend,  my  friend,  I  have  come 
With  a  purpose  of  doing  what  grieves  me 
To  my  ve>'y  soul,  and  \vhut  I  have  earnestly 
With  tears  besought  the  Lord  not  to  impose 
On  me ;  but  there  is  a  necessity,  in  order 
To  the  glory  of  God  and  the  good  of  the  nation. 

HARRISON. 

Sir,  the  work  is  very  great  and  dangerous. 
I  desire  you  seriously  to  consider  before  you 
Engage  in  it. 

CROMWELL. 
You  say  well ;  we  will  consider  on  it. 

SPEAKER. 

The  Bill  for  the  dissolution  of  this  House, 
With  due  restrictions  on  the  military  power, 
Having  been  well  debated,  I  move  the  question 
Now  be  taken. 

CROMWELL  (to  HARRISON). 
This  is  the  time — now  must  I  do  it. 
Addressing  the  House.]  My  friends,  my  friends,  have  we 

fought  and  bled  for  this? 

Left  we  our  homes,  our  wives,  our  babe«,  to  make 
The  sward  at  best  our  beds,  if  not  our  graves, 
While  you,  self-seekers  and  profane,  denying  justice, 
And  oppressors  all,  lapped  in  luxuries, 
Found  uneasy  rest  even  upon  your  downy  pillows — 
We  fasting  when  you  feasted — the  elements 
Fiercest  beating  on  our  unprotected  heads, 
While  you  sat  sheltered  by  your  blazing  hearths, 
Idolizing  the  lawyers,  constant  advocates  of  tyranny  ? 
And  for  what  did  we  this  ?     Returning 
Victorious  over  every  foe,  to  find  reward 


SCENE    III.]  CROMWELL.  93 

In  glory,  honor,  ease,  and  plenty  ?     Homes  where 
We  might  rest  our  wearied  frames,  and  nurse 
Our  racked  joints  to  health  again  ? 

Was  this  our  return  ? 

No,  no ;  not  so ;  no  comfort  for  your  tools ; 
Months  of  our  pay  in  arrears ;  our  crying  babes, 
Crying  but  for  the  crumbs  fall  hourly  from  your  tables ; 
Our  weeping  wives,  heart-riven  by  their  sufferings ; 
While  we,  disabled  in  your  cause  that  ye  might  feast, 
Have  not  wherewith  to  break  our  fast.     But,  Sirs, 
Your  time  has  come.     The  Lord  has  disowned  you ; 
He  has  chosen  more  worthy  instruments 
To  perform  His  work. 

SIR  HABRY  VANE. 

Sir,  Sir,  I  never  have  heard 
Words  so  unparliamentary  and  offensive, 
And  uttered,  too,  by  our  own  servant, 
Whom  we  have  so  fondly  cherished ;  whom, 
By  unprecedented  bounty,  we  have  raised 
To  the  elevation  on  which  he  now  stands. 

CROMWELL. 

Come,  come,  Sir ;  I'll  put  an  end  to  your  prating. 

This  must  not,  shall  not  be.     Ye  shall  disgorge 

A  portion  of  those  rights  which  ye  so  long 

Have  preyed  on.     Ye  would  be  masters  ;  fit  masters 

Ye  shall  be,  but  of  yourselves  alone. 

Here  die  your  tyrannies,  ambitions,  robberies, 

And  oppressions  of  the  public. 

Ho,  there  !  without !  [Soldiers  enter. 
BEHOLD  TOUR  MASTERS  !     /,  their  and  God's  instrument. 
For  shame  on  you,  vile  leeches  that  ye  are ! 
Go,  get  you  gone ;  give  place  to  honester  men ; 
To  those  who  will  more  faithfully  discharge 


94         '  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 

Their  trust.     You  are  no  longer  a  Parliament ! 
I  tell  you,  you  are  no  longer  a  Parliament ! 
The  Lord,  the  mighty  Lord,  has  done  with  you ; 
He  has  chosen  other  instruments  for  His  work. 

SIR  HARRY  VANE. 

I  do  protest  against  this  proceeding. 
CROMWELL,  laughing. 

Oh,  Sir  Harry  Vane !     Sir  Harry  Vane ! 

A  vain  protest — most  vain.     The  Lord  deliver  me 

From  Sir  Harry  Vane — ha !  ha  !  ha ! 

Taking  MARTIN  by  the  cloakJ]     Thou  art  a  lecherous 

knave — retire ; 
We  must  have  modest  men  here ! 

To  another.]     Thou  art  an  adulterer — begone ! 
You  taint  the  very  air. 

To  another.']     Thou  art  a  drunkard  and  a  glutton — 
Away !  a  very  beast ! 

To  another.]  And  thou  an  extortioner- 

The  rack  were  thy  just  doom.     Millions  hast  thou 
Kept  on  it.     God  gave  even  you  a  conscience. 
Go — for  now  you'll  find  it — go  to  your  solitude. 
I  have  your  ill-gotten,  heart-wrung  gains. 
Ye  are  dishonest  and  corrupt  livers  all, 
A  shame  and  scandal  to  the  profession 
Of  the  Gospel. 

SPEAKER   LENTHAL. 

I  do  refuse  to  withdraw, 
Unless  I  am  compelled  to  leave  this  chair. 

HARRISON  leads  forth  two  of  the  military,  at  a  sign  from 
CROMWELL,  to  make  a  show  of  force,  and,  laying  his 
hand  on  LENTIIAL,  assists  him  to  descend.  About  eighty, 


AlCENE    IV.]  CROMWELL.  95 

among  whom  is  ALGERNON  SIDNEY,  follow  this  example^ 
and  move  towards  the  door. 

CROMWELL. 

It  is  you  who  have  forced  me  to  do  this. 
I  have  sought  the  Lord  night  and  day,  that 
He  would  rather  slay  me,  than  put  me  on 
The  doing  of  this  work. 

ALDERMAN  ALLEN. 

It  is  not  yet  too  late 
To  undo  what  has  just  been  done. 

CROMWELL. 

This  from  you,  Sir  ? 

You,  who  have  defrauded  the  public  to  the  amount 
Of  some  hundred  thousand  pounds,  as  Treasurer 
Of  the  army  !     Take  him  into  custody, 
Until  he  answers  for  this  peculation. 

Fixing  his  eyes  on  the  mace.] 
What  shall  we  do  with  this  fool's  bawble  ? 
Here — carry  it  away. 
He.  snatches  the  -Act  of  Dissolution  from  the  hands  of 

the  Clerk.] 

Lock  fast  the.  door,  and  bring   the  keys — 
I  will  unto  Whitehall. 

[fie  retires,  and  the  door  is  locked. 


SCENE  FOURTH. 

"Whitehall. — Council  of  State — Council  of  Officers  waiting  Cromwell's 

return. 

CROMWELL  enters. 

My  friends,  my  fellow-sol  Hers,  I  have  been  sorely  tried; 
I  did  not  think  to  have  done  what  I  did ; 


96  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 

But,  perceiving  the  Spirit  of  God 

So  strong  upon  me,  I  would  no  longer 

Consult  flesh  and  blood,  but  let  the  Spirit  act. 

Behold  the  spoil — the  mace,  the  keys  of  the  lower  House, 

The  Act  of  Dissolution — the  Parliament  is  no  more. 

OFFICES. 

How  mean  you,  General  ?     The  Parliament  no  more  ? 
This  course  can  only  lead  to  ruin  and  confusion. 

CKOMWELL. 

Leave  that  to  me.     Have  I  ever  yet  failed  ? 

I  will  do  much  more  good  to  the  country 

Than  ever  could  be  expected  from  Parliament. 

*Asicte.~\  Ireton,  a  word  with  you.     [They  retire  one  side. 

COLONEL    OAKEY. 

Means  so  hypocritical,  the  end  will  sure  be  bad. 
What  could  be  passing  in  the  General's  mind, 
When  he  praised  the  Parliament  so  highly 
To  the  Council  of  Officers,  and  yet  proceeded 
Immediately  afterwards  to  eject  them 
With  so  much  scorn  and  contempt  ? 

DESBOBOUGH. 

True,  true ;  if  ever  the  General  drolled  in  his  life, 
He  has  drolled  now.     We  must  look  to  this. 

CKOMWELL. 

Gentlemen,  if  you  are  here  met  as  private  persons, 
You  shall  not  be  disturbed ;  but  if  as  a  Council 
Of  State,  this  is  no  place  for  you ;  and  since 
You  cannot  but  know  all  that  was  done  at  the  House 
But  this  morning,  so  take  notice  that  the  Parliament 
Is  dissolved. 


SCENE    IV.]  CROMWELL.  97 

BEADSHAW. 

Sir,  we  have  heard  what  you  did 
At  the  House  in  the  morning,  and  before  many  hours 
All  England  will  hear  it ;  but,  Sir,  yon  are  mistaken 
To  think  that  the  Parliament  is  dissolved  ; 
For  no  power  under  heaven  can  dissolve  them 
But  themselves.     Therefore  take  you  notice 
Of  that. 

SIB    ABTHUB    HAZELBIG. 

Ay,  indeed ;  this  is  true. 

MR.    LOVE    AND   MB.    PEAT. 

Ay,  true ;  most  true. 

CBOMWELL. 

Ye  too,  Gentlemen !     I  thank  ye,  Sirs. 

All  England  soon  will  hear  it ;  and,  hearing,  know 

That  the  Parliament  would  have  sent  their  officers 

And  soldiers  into  private  life,  upon  diminished  pay, 

And  stripped  of  all  influence  those  who  had  made 

Them  great,  and  England  to  be  feared. 

The  Army  and  the  Navy  both,  in  their  addresses 

Unto  me,  declare  that  they  will  stand  or  fall, 

Live  or  die,  in  support  of  these  my  measures. 

The  populace  throughout  the  land  will  thank  me 

For  it ;  ay,  and  chant  hymns  of  triumph 

O'er  your  fall ;  magnify  the  name  of  the  Lord, 

Who  has  broken  the  mighty,  and  cast 

The  proud  down  to  the  ground. 

Aside.]  Ireton,  'tis  well 

We  have  done  what  we  have ;  these  statesmen 
Are  fast  becoming  adepts  in  ou>  policy. 
Had  but  the  Bill  for  dissolution  passed, 
Those  neuters — those,  I  mean,  of  the  Presbyterian  interest, 
Who  had  not  consented  in  our  measures — 
5 


98  CROMWELL. 

IRETON,  interrupting  him. 
The  King's  death  and  the  Army's  measures. 

CROMWELL. 

Ireton,  no  more  of  that ;  name  it  not, 
Name  it  not !     When  memory  calls  it  tip, 
My  heart  is  blanched,  and  what  I  have  to  do 
I  do  by  halves — those  hated  hours  shadow 
All  my  days. 

IRETON. 

The  wisdom  of  your  acts 
Refutes  all  charges,  and  should  dispel  such  thoughts. 

CROMWELL. 

It  may  be  so ;  but  enough  of  this. 

By  interposing  my  authority  just  when  I  did, 

The  dispute  I  limited  to  a  body 

Of  men  who,  for  reasons  various,  had  ceased 

To  be  longer  popular — call  it  as  you  may, 

My  good  fortune  or  my  great  political  wisdom. 

My  friends,  let  now  a  Council  of  State 

Be  appointed,  to  watch  over  the  peace  and  safety 

Of  the  Commonwealth,  and  superintend 

The  present  management  of  public  aifairs, 

In  number  thirteen — nine  military  and  four  civilians ; 

A  Scriptural  number,  and  vouchsafed  to  us 

By  Him  whom  here  we  seek  to  serve.     Sir  Harry  Vane, 

Pray  you  be  one  of  us. 

SIR    HARRY    VANE. 

Thank  you,  General ;  though  the  reign 
Of  ihe  saints  is  begun,  I  shall  defer  my  share 
Until  I  go  to  Heaven. 

CROMWELL. 

Or  to ,  as  it  best  pleases  you ; 


SCENE    IV.]  CROMWELL.  99 

All  have  a  right  to  choose  their  company. 

Beckoning  them  to  one  side."] 
Good  Major  Salloway,  and  Carew,  my  friend, 
Prithee,  your  care  and  counsel.     I  know  not  how 
I  can  sustain  this  weight  now  falls  upon  me. 
Thoughts  of  the  awful  consequences  make  me  tremble. 
Free  me,  I  prithee,  from  the  great  temptation 
Laid  before  me.     Go  ye,  I  pray,  forthwith 
Unto  Chief-Justice  St.  John  and  Mr.  Selden, 
And  together  draw  some  instrument  of  government, 
Which  may  take  the  power  out  of  my  hands. 

SALLOWAY. 

The  way  to  free  you  from  this  temptation 
Is  for  you  not  to  look  upon  yourself  ,. 

To  be  under  it,  but  to  rest  persuaded 
That  the  power  of  the  nation  is  in  the  good  people 
Of  England,  as  formerly  it  was. 

CROMWELL. 

Thou  speakest  well ; 

My  many  cares  at  times  obscure  my  thoughts. 
I  pray  you,  then,  summon  our  chief  officers 
To  meet  me  at  Whitehall  forthwith,  where  they  may 

consider 
What  'twere  best  to  do. 

SALLOWAT. 
We  will. 

CROMWELL. 

Do  it  forthwith. 

'Tis  well.     Some  private  business  calls  me  now— 
Prithee,  attend  to  this.  [Exeunt  CA.REW  and  SALLOWAT. 

Ireton,  read  ye  their  thoughts  ? 
We  must  be  wary. 


100  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 

IRETON. 

Ay,  and  bold ;  the  power  is  yours. 

CROMWELL. 

And  I  will  keep  it.    I  will  conclude  the  treaty 

With  the  Portuguese  Ambassador,  suspend 

The  four  Judges  do  offend,  and  make 

Two  new  appointments ;  nominate  new  Commissioners 

Of  the  Treasury  and  Admiralty ;  continue 

The  monthly  assessments  of  one  hundred  and  twenty 

thousand  pounds 

For  an  additional  half  year.     For  form's  sake, 
I  will  submit  it  to  my  Council  of  State ; 
It  will  sanction  it  in  the  eyes  of  England. 
'Twere  well,  I  think,  too,  for  form's  sake, 
That  we  and  our  Council  of  State 
Should  nominate  a  Parliament 
Of  holy,  pious  men.     Did  our  ministers 
In  the  several  counties  send  returns 
Of  persons  faithful,  fearing  God, 
And  hating  covetousness,  who  may  be  deemed 
Qualified  for  this  high  and  important  trust  ? 
I'll  choose,  say,  an  hundred  and  fifty  to  serve  for  certain 

places 

In  the  three  kingdoms. 

i 

IRETON,  showing  a  list. 
They  did — are  here — and  I  have  chosen  them. 

CROMWELL,  laughing. 

'Tis  well — a  goodlie 
If  not  Godlie  company.     There  are  an  hundred  and  titty, 

we, 

That  is,  you,  my  Ireton,  and  I,  know  to  be  true 
And  faithful.     You  will  observe 


SCENE    IV.]  CROMWKLL.  101 

They  did  appear  personally  at  Whitehall 

On  the  Fourth  Day  of  July,  1653— 

This  shall  be  hulled  throughout  the  wo:  Id 

As  Freedom's  Birthday.     Attend  on  them ; 

Go  you,  and  send  me  instant  word  how  they  conduct. 

\JExit  IKETON. 

Enter  the  Quaker  Merchant  Fox.] 

Most  worthy  friend, 

What  would st  thou  have  ?     A  merchant  prince, 
Most  honored  of  God's  instruments — link 
In  the  priceless  chain  of  peaceful  arts 
That  bind  all  climes  together — source 
Of  England's  glory — God's  treasurer    on  earth — 
Trustee    immaculate  of  the  wealth  He  gives, 
In  charity's  sweet  offices  to  dispense — 
Mid  heaviest  charges  e'er  has  Cromwell's  ear. 

FOX. 

My  ship  from  India — her  cargo  priceless — 
Is  by  the  Spaniards,  in  the  Channel,  taken. 

CEOMWELL. 

Tour  ship !     Truly  thou  say'st  her  cargo's  priceless — 

'Twas  England's  honor  that  she  convoyed  hither. 

And  in  the  Channel  too  ! — at  our  very  doors ! 

But  what  matters  that?     Were  it  in  furthest  seas, 

Our  flag  should  be  immaculate.     Their  wealth 

Has  made  these  Spaniards  arrogant. 

'Twill  prove  the  curse  and  ruin  of  their  land — 

Misused,  abused,  the  trust  forgotten. 

Thou  shalt  be  recompensed  ten  days  from  this ; 

Make  out  your  charges;  'tis  England's  cause  ; 

Our  Blake  shall  straightway  seek  their  argosies. 

Monuments  of  your  goodness  fill  the  land, 

Which  the  most  loses  in  your  loss. 


102  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 

FOX. 

My  duty — nothing  more — no  praise  in  that — 
My  habit  and  my  home  I  have — 'tis  all  I  need- 
The  rest  is  for  the  State. 

So  do  I  humbly  take  my  leave. 

CROMWELL. 

God's  peace  be  with  thee.  [Exit  Quaker  Fox. 

A.n  Officer  enters  and  hands  a  note  to  CROMWELL,  saying, 
"  From  General  IRETON,  my  Lord ;"  then  retires. 

CROMWELL  alone,  takes  the  note  and  reads. 

The  Parliament  are  met — my  goodlie,  Godly 

Parliament — no,  no,  not  mine,  but  Barebones'. 

What  a  name !     They  would  o'erturn  all  known  forms 

Of  law  and  government,  would  I  but  let  them. 

I  have  failed  indeed  in  this.     They  are  worse 

Than  were  the  Danes  or  Normans.     Those  fellows, 

Preaches,  Feakes,  and  Powell,  preach,  that  Cromwell 

Is  the  Man  of  Sin — the  Old  Dragon  and  the  Beast 

Foretold  in  the  Revelation.     I've  had  enough 

Of  this  fooling.     Ireton  !  Ireton,  I  say! — 

There's  terror  in  his  looks  and  name — 

IRETON  enters.]     My  son,  go  to  the  House, 
Forthwith — bid  the  members  repair  to  Whitehall, 
And  give  back  their  authority  into  the  hands 
Of  him  from  whom  they  had  received  it. 
If  these  reformers,  who  are  some  thirty — 
I  know  them  all — ask  for  a  warrant,  call  in 
A  company  of  soldiers ;  take  my  own  guard, 
If  needs  be  ;  clear  the  House,  and  hither  bring 
The  keys.     It  must  be  done — this  the  best  way 
To  do  it. 


SC'EME    IV.]  CROMWELL.  103 

IBETON. 

And  shall  be. 

CROMWELL. 

He  likes  this  service. 

What  a  stout  heart  that  is !     My  Oliver's  was  even  such, 
But  Richard's  is  a  gewgaw  for  fair  dames. 

CAREW  enters. 

General,  the  Military  Council  have  decided 
That,  finding  Parliaments  such  unstable 
And  unwieldy  things,  that  you  be  solemnly 
Installed  the  Lord  Protector  of  the  Commonwealth 
Of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  and  do  await 
Your  presence  in  Westminster  Hall.     They  beg 
You'll  pardon  this  lack  of  ceremony, 
But  the  State  requires  it. 

CROMWELL. 

Thanks,  my  good  friend  ; 

I  will  attend,  though  I  would  rather  not  assume 
Fresh  cares.  [Exit.  CAREW. 

IRETON  enters  with  Speaker,  bringing  keys. 

CROMWELL. 

Ha !  Gentlemen ;  welcome,  Gentlemen  ; 

With  a  smile.~\  ' 
My  son,  you  did  escort  them  hi  due  form. 

SPEAKER. 

We  would  resign  the  power  you  conferred  on  us, 
Unworthy  instruments,  unequal  to  the  task, 
And  pray  for  your  dismission. 

CROMWELL.. 

Nay,  my  good  friend, 
Why  so  ?     How  is  this  ?     You  have  scarcely  entered 


104  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 

Upon  our  service ;  but  if  it  needs  must  be, 
"Why,  it  must  be.     I  have  appealed  to  God 
Before  you  already.     I  know  it  is  a  tender  thing 
To  make  appeals  to  God.     Then  fare  ye  well 
[Speaker  exit  one  side  ;  CROMWELL  and  IRETON  the  other. 


SCENE  FIFTH. 
Westminster  Hall. 

A  Chair  of  State,  with  a  rich  carpet  and  cushions. — A  Commissioner  of 
the  Great  Seal  at  each  hand. — The  Judges  on  both  sides. — The  Lord 
Mayor  and  Aldermen  on  the  right,  and  the  members  of  the  Council  on 
the  left. — Triumphal  Music. — CROMWELL  enters  with  a  splendid  retinue. 

CROMWELL. 

My  loving,  honorable,  and  much  honored  friends, 
Why  would  ye  Eumir.cn  me,  an  humble  citizen, 
To  leave  the  calm  and  equal  walks  of  privacy, 
For  the  toilecrr.e  and  uneasy  race  of  greatness? 
I  thanlc  ye  for  the  honors  ye  would  confer ; 
But  pray  ye  to  confer  them  on  one  worthier. 

INGOLDSBY. 

Cromwell's  the  name,  the  worthiest  England 

Ever  bore,  to  wear  the  honors  that  her  people  give. 

LISLE. 

Here  is  the  institute  of  Government, 
Duly  sealed,  and  here  am  I  to  administer 
The  oath  gives  unto  England's  sole  and  only  use 
Her  worthiest  son,  as  Protector  of  the  Realm. 

CROMWELL,  raising  his  hand. 
Since  such  is  your  and  the  people's  gracious  will, 
Here  do  I  swear,  in  all  humility, 


SCEXE    V.]  CROMWELL.  105 

Ilor  honor  to  preserve  by  land  and  sea, 
From  pole  to  pole. 

The  JLords  Commissioners  deliver  up  to  CROMWELL  the 
Purse  and  Seals. 

LORDS   COMMISSIONERS. 

The  purse  and  seals,  your  Highness  ; 
Pointing  to  the  Chair  of  State.]  And  that  your  seat. 

% 

LORD    MAYOR    OF   LONDOK. 

This  too,  with  London's  love  and  loyalty,  my  sword. 

CROMWELL. 

Nay,  Sir,  as  Cromwell's  friend,  keep  this. 

In  greatest  stress  the  Londoners  e'er  proved  true ; 

So  may  I  find  them  ever. 

Advances.] 

Protector  of  the  Realm — in  all  things  King,  save  name ! 
The  wide  world  envies  me — the  air  is  rent 
With  praises  of  my  deeds — each  act  a  virtue, 
And  many  great  acts  mine  that  never  yet 
I  dreamed  of.     So  runs  the  world ;  a  few  short  years 
Protector  of  the  Realm,  a  few  short  minutes 
May  be  your  span  of  life.     But  for  this  mail, 

[Strikes  his  breast. 

Some  secret  foe  had  long  ere  this  probed 
My  heart's  mysteries,  and  unveiled  to  earth 
What  Heaven  only  knows ;  for  ah"  my  deeds, 
Ay,  even  my  motives,  yet  shall  be  unfolded 
To  the  world,  though  it  may  be  not  until 
Long  hereafter ;  but  probed  they  will  be. 
Regicide  one  age,  the  next  I  shall  be  lauded 
To  the  skies  as  Godlike,  Freedom's  Father ! 
Strange  destinv  is  mine — an  humble  wanderer 

O  » 

In  a  savage  clime,  I  thought  to  be, 
5* 


106  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v 

When  he,  whose  head  paid  forfeit  for  the  act, 

Compelled  my  sojourn  here,  and  made  me 

More  than  King;  for  I've  o'erleaped  all  wonted  forms, 

And  out  of  the  line  direct,  though  of  royal  blood, 

I  reign  entire  master  of  the  Realm — 

Its  meanest  and  its  mightiest,  officers  to  my  will. 

ATTENDANT,  advancing. 
Ambassador  of  France,  my  Lord. 

CROMWELL. 

Give  him  admittance. 

AMBASSADOR. 

France  sends  her  greeting  unto  the  Lord  Protector, 
And  woos  his  friendship  and  his  favor. 

CROMWELL. 

We  thank  His  Majesty,  and  trust  the  love 
Our  people  and  ourselves  now  entertain 
For  him  may  be  preserved.     Say  this  is 
From  Cromwell  unto  Mazarin.     Prithee, 
Your  presence  at  our  feast  to-day. 

Presenting  him  to  Ladies.]     Our  Lady  Cromwell, 
And  our  friends,  fair  Sir. 

Officer  hands  a  paper.]     From  Spain  an  Ambassador 
Attends.     France  and  Spain — France  or  Spain — 
Now  come  the  troubles  of  our  greatness. 
Portugal  too  doth  wait ;  and  from  the  Netherlands 
There  is  an  embassy ;  the  United  Provinces 
Now  sue  for  peace,  on  terms  most  favorable 
To  us — which  we  will  grant,  for  our  great  Blake 
Has  swept  the  seas  even  of  Von  Tromp 
And  his  masthead  broom.     The  triumphs  of  our  flag 
Shed  a  glory  on  our  rule  unequalled 


SCT:\E  v.]  CROMWELL.  107 

By  the  past — if  Cromwell  lives,  never  to  be  equalled 
In  the  f/reat  hereafter. 

I'll  have  no  foreign  wars,  our  foes  subdued 

Or  peace  insured  ;  for  there  are  troublous  tongues 

Enough  at  home.     Though  scarce  established 

As  their  Lord  Protector,  idle,  venomous  spirits 

Do  menace  me — even  the  Preachers  dare  denounce  me. 

The  system  I  in  Ireland  adopted,  speedily  worked 

My  ends ;  I'll  try  it  here.     Ireton,  I  have  heard 

That  our  late  friend,  Harrison,  wags  his  tongue 

Against  us.     He  was  a  master  spirit  in  our  cause ; 

May  prove  such  against  us.     The  Tower 

Were  the  safest  place  for  him.     There's  likewise 

A  stubborn,  wrongheaded  schoolmaster  called  Vowell, 

Who  has  been  most  treasonable  in  his  course ; 

He  is  not  of  much  note,  and  has  few  friends 

To  feel  revenge — let  him  be  hanged — 

'Twill  give  their  idle  brains  somewhat  to  muse 

Upon  ;  and  that  young  fellow,  Gerald, 

I've  seen  the  boy,  a  murderer  by  his  looks — 

Let  him  swing  for  it — be  instant — 

No  paltering  now.  [Exit  IKETON. 

Faith,  I  would  rather  have  taken 
A  shepherd's  staff  than  this  Protectorship. 
My  Genius  hates  this  show  of  greatness. 
New  England  should  have  been  my  home ; 
No  shadows  would  have  crossed  my  pure  intents. 
There  the  untutored  savage  I  might  have  moulded 
In  the  true  ways  of  life;  in  nature  and  association 
They're  prepared.     Here,  every  tree 
And  stone,  ay,  every  star  tells  men  of  Princes 
And  their  pageantry.     The  history  of  all  times 
Teaches  of  despots  and  despotic  rule. 


108  CROMWELL.  [ACT    V. 

Though  for  some  short-lived  season  men  may  have  tried 
Self-government,  'twas  e'er  to  fall  under  an  iron  hand, 
That  crushed  them  into  obedience. 

I  have  been  swept  along 

By  the  swift  current  of  fierce  events,  and  find 
Myself  upon  a  throne — a  throne  of  cares  and  fears — 
My  myrmidons,  jealousy,  hate,  deceit, 
And  all  the  fellest  passions  of  the  human  heart. 
Men  do  not  love  me — why,  they  cannot  say, 
Save  that  I  have  o'ertopped  them.     [Enter  INGOLDSBY. 

Ha !  Ingoldsby — 
What  news  ? 

INGOLDSBY. 

Great  discontent  among 
Our  quondam  friends. 

CROMWELL. 

Why  so  ?     Have  I  not  told  them 

I  would  not  be  lord  over  them ;  but  one  that  is  resolved 
To  be  a  fellow-servant,  to  the  intent 
Of  this  great  aifair? 

INGOLDSBY. 

True,  true ;  but  now  the  House  debated,  whether 
They  should  consent  to  have  the  Government 
Vested  in  a  single  person  and  a  Parliament, 
And  carried  it  but  by  five  voices. 
Enter  IRETON.] 

CROMWELL. 

Indeed !  what  more  ? 
IRETON. 

One  said,  that  as  God  had  made  him 
Instrumental  in  cutting  down  tyranny 
In  one  individual,  so  could  he  not  endure 


SCENE    V.]  CROMWELL.  ,  109 

To  see  the  liberties  of  the  nation  shackled 
By  another,  whose  right  to  the  Government 
Could  not  be  measured  otherwise  than  by  the  length 
Of  his  sword,  which  alone  hnd  emboldened  him 
To  command  his  commanders. 

CBOMWELL. 

And  yet  they  thrust  it  on  me. 
What  more  was  said  ? 

INGOLDSBY. 

Another  as  the  Prophet 

Unto  Ahab  said — "  Hast  thou  killed  and  also 
Taken  possession  ?" 

CBOMWELL. 

Such  words  of  me!     I  had  not  dreamed 
They  thought  it.     Killed,  did  they  say  ?     You  know 
I  did  not  do  it ;  it  was  ordained  by  them ; 
My  signature  wrung  from  a  father's  bleeding  heart, 
At  sight  of  his  eldest  son  a  corpse  transfixed. 

If  this  is  my  reward 

For  years  of  toil — for  fondest  hopes  crushed 
At  their  consummation — for  Heaven's  own  ways 
(Mine  were  then  most  pure),  all  set  aside, 
And  worldly  courses  taken — hereafter 
I  will  be  ruler  of  myself  and  of  this  realm — 
Preserve  my  life,  though  at  the  cost  of  myriads. 
I  have  made  England  great,  greater  than  e'er  before, 
And  I  will  rule.     Ingoldsby,  let  them  say  on, 
Ay,  gibe  like  monkeys — I  tell  you,  Sir, 
The  time  will  come  when  they  will  offer  me 
The  crown.     Go  you,  and  order  three  regiments 
To  march  into  the  city ;  seize  the  most  noisy 
Of  these  brawlers ;  place  a  guard  at  the  door 
Of  the  House,  and  lay  this  recognition 


110  CEOMWETX.  [ACT  i 

On  a  table  in  the  lobby,  for  their  signature. 

I  have  foreseen  all  this,  and  now  will  know 

My  friends.     This  binds  them  neither  to  propose 

Or  consent  to  alter  the  Government 

As  it  is  now  settled  in  a  single  person 

And  Parliament.     I  will  have  my  spies 

In  every  regiment,  in  almost  every  house, 

And  in  the  very  bed-chamber  of  this  Charles  II., 

As  they  clepe  him — at  Cologne  and  at  Paris. 

I  have  done  with  peace  and  rest — there  is 

No  rest  for  me  but  in  the  grave — the  grave. 

This  kingdom  I  will  divide  into  military  governments, 
To  arrest,  imprison,  and  bind  over 
All  dangerous  and  suspected  persons, 
Without  the  power  of  appeal  to  any 
But  the  Protector  himself  and  his  Council; 
And  all  who  have  borne  arms  for  the  King, 
Or  were  of  the  royal  party,  shall  be 
Decimated.     There  will  no  longer  be  a  cant 
Of  liberty.     They  are  not  fit  for  it, 
Who  fatten  on  distrust,  and,  gorged, 
Would  fill  the  realm  with  it.     There  now  are 
In  the  ports  a  hundred  ships  of  various  sizes  ; — 
Penn  and  Venables  shall  hasten  to  the  settlements 
Of  Spain  and  seize  on  them ; 
Thence  to  James  River,  and  reduce  to  allegiance 
.  Unto  me,  those  colonies  which  dare  adhere 
To  Charles,  cleping  themselves  the  "  Old  Dominion  ;" 
I'll  give  them  a  new  rule,  \vhose  seeds  shall  yet 
OYrtop  the  world ; — while  Blake  shall  add 
To  his  well-won  honors,  and  seize  Spain's  treasure-ships. 
France  must  be  our  friend,  even  though  Spain 
Is  our  foe;  yet  now  proposes  I  should  be  seated 


SCENE    V.]  CROMWELL.  HI 

On  the  throne.     Ireton,  go  you  and  give  my  order 

That  Penruddock  and  Groves  be  beheaded  at  Exeter ; 

Jones  and  his  friends  be  hanged ;  the  residue 

Who  were  concerned  in  the  rising  at  Salisbury, 

Be  sent  to  Barbadoes  and  sold  as  slaves ! 

Issue  my  declaration,  prohibiting 

All  sequestered  clergymen  of  the  Church 

Of  England  from  preaching  or  using  the  Liturgy, 

As  ministers,  either  in  public  or  private ; 

And  command  all  Roman  Catholic  priests 

To  quit  the  kingdom  under  pain  of  death. 

Forbid  the  publication  in  print  of  any  news 

Whatever,  without  permission  from  the  Secretary  of  State. 

There  are  three  argosies  in  port,  taken  by  Blake  ; 

See  that  Friend  Fox  be  recompensed — this  done, 

The  residue  retain  for  England's  honor. 

Thus  Cromwell  seeks  redress. 

Send  instantly  an  embassy  to  the  Duke  of  Savoy, 

To  intercede  in  behalf  of  the  persecuted  Vaudois. 

Our  brother  of  Franca  unites  in  this — we  will  it  so. 

Then  let  him  haste  to  Rome,  with  our  command 

That  all  persecutions  of  God's  elect  shall  cease, 

Or  Cromwell's  cannon's  roar  shall  echo 

Through  St.  Angelo.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  COLONEL  JEPHSON,  ASHE,  and  SIK  CHARLES  PACK. 

COLONEL   JEPHSON. 

My  friends,  what  may  we  do  to  stay 

These  plots  against  our  General  and  ourselves, 

Which  rise  on  every  hand  at  every  hour  ? 

ASHE. 

Make  him  our  King  ! — beseech  him  that  he  will  be  pleased 
To  take  upon  himself  the  Government 


112  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 

According  to  the  ancient  Constitution — 
Then  will  their  hopes  and  plots  be  at  an  end. 

SIR    CHARLES    PACK. 

This  was  my  thought ;  and  here  have  I  prepared 

An  humble  address  and  remonstrance 

Of  the  knights,  citizens,  and  burgesses  now  assembled 

In  the  Parliament  of  the  Commonwealth, 

Praying  lie  will  accept  this  power. 

The  title  I  have  left  blank — shall  we  present  it  ? 

JEPHSON. 

Ay,  and  fill  the  blank  with  KING.     We'll  find  him 
In  the  Tapestrie  Chamber.     Come,  we'll  present  it 
On  the  instant.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE    SIXTH. 
White!  mil. 

Enter   CROMWELL,    LAMBERT,    FLEETWOOD,  and  DESBOR 

OUGH. 
CROMWELL. 

Oh,  what  a  troublous  thing  is  greatness  ! 

I  om-e  knew  peace — sweet  peace  of  mind — but  it  is  fled 

Forever.     There  is  no  safety  now  for  me 

From  dastard  cut-throats,  save  an  armed  guard, 

And  nil  the  attendants  make  kings  slaves. 

Free  in  my  nature,  I  would  have  been  free, 

Free  as  the  wild  deer  roves  New  England's  woods. 

He  stayed  me  in  my  course  of  usefulness, 

And  made  me  what  I  am  now,  what  I  am  yet 

To  be.     Fleet  wood  my  son,  my  brother  Desborough, 

And  my  friend  Lambert — they  would  have  me  king, 

These  lawyers  and  civilians — what  think  yo 


SCENE    VI.]  CROMWELL.  113 

Of  tliis  name  ?     The  power  I  have  is  greater 
Than  any  king's  for  ages  past. 

DESBOROUGH. 

Nay,  Cromwell,  entertain  it  not ; 
There  is  more  matter  than  you  perceive  in  this ; 
Those  who  would  put  this  on  you,  sure,  are  no  enemies 
To  Charles  Stuart. 

FLEETWOOD. 

Metbinka  it  would  draw  ruin  on  yourself 
And  friends.     General,  eschew  this  act. 

CROMWELL. 

Oh,  ye  are  a  couple  of  precise,  scrupulous  fellows.    _ 
Lambert,  what  say  you  ? 

LAMBERT. 

As  do  these  friends,  your  kinsmen, — 
Touch  not  the  diadem. 

CROMWELL. 

Well,  well,  I  would  do  naught  without  consent 

Of  the  army.     Hasten  to  the  House,  and  put  them  off 

From  doing  any  thing  further  in  this  matter. 

But  lo,  whom  have  we  here  ? 

Enter  SPEAKER  and  others. 

SPEAKER. 

My  Lord,  herewith  do  I  present  to  you 
The  humble  petition  and  advice  of  the  Parliament, 
Setting  forth  the  advantages  of  I'egal  government, 
And  the  nation's  confidence  in  a  new  Sovereign — 
Yourself  their  choice. 

CROMWELL. 

My  gentle  friends,  I  thank  you,  but  must  decline. 


114  CROMWELL.  [ACT   V. 

SPEAKER,  presenting  the  diadem. 
Here  is  the  diadem. 

CROMWELL. 

What !  would  ye  tempt  me 
With  this  golden  bawble,  which  at  the  best 
Is  but  a  feather  in  a  man's  cap  ?     I  should  not  be 
An  honest  man,  did  I  not  tell  you  that  I 
Cannot  accept  of  the  government,  nor  undertake 
The  trouble  and  charge  of  it.     I,  who  have  tried  it 
More  than  any  one — indeed,  I  cannot  undertake 
The  government  with  the  title  of  King. 
This  receive,  I  pray  you,  as  my  answer 
To  this  great  and  weighty  business.* 

SPEAKER. 

This  must  we  to  the  Parliament  relate, 
Who'll  much  regret  refusal  to  thbir  will. 

CROMWELL. 

Give  them  rny  thanks ; — as  Lord  Protector 
I  will  rule  the  realm  as  God  directs  me. 
'Tis  a  weighty  trust ;  I  pray  ye  lighten  it 
As  best  ye  may,  by  your  collected  wisdom, 
Unto  which  I'll  bow,  so  long  as  England's  welfare 
Is  your  aim.     My  thanks  to  one  and  all ; 
My  friends,  at  even  I  will  meet  ye.  [Exeunt. 

The  diadem  of  England  mine!     Her  fleets, 
Her  fortresses,  her  coffers,  armies,  all  are  mine ! 
All  save  her  people's  love — that  which  I  most 
Had  prized — and  yet  they'd  have  me  take 
The  name  of  King — that  bane  of  greatness. 
I  sought  it  not,  and  ne'er  will  own  it.     I  have  made 
England  great,  Scotland  and  Ireland  too, 
And  won  a  name  which  shall  be  mine  alone 
*  Cromwell's  words. 


SCENE    VI.]  CROMWELL.  115 

For  every  age  throughout  the  world.     I  made 

My  people  free — redressed  their  wrongs,  and  placed 

The  power  in  their  own  hands — but  ah,  alas! 

I  found  them  ill  prepared  for  self-government ; 

They  are  so  trammelled  by  old  ties  and  customs. 

Whitehall  nnd  Westminster,  St.  James,  the  Tower, 

All  speak  of  regal  rule;  old  laws  and  usages 

Are  seared  upon  their  hearts ;  they  cannot  walk 

In  the  new  paths  I've  marked  ;  paths  must  be  laid  out 

In  a  new  land,  where  there  is  naught  but  freedom 

To  be  seen.     There  in  Nev/  England  I  might  have  fixed 

The  People's  Rule — a  rule  that  shall  o'ermaster 

Every  other  form,  and  last  till  the  last  trump 

Shall  sound,  if  men  but  unto  themselves  be  true. 

Ah !  that  dread  tertian  ague  seizes  now ! 

Why  comes  this  sickness  on  me  at  this  hour? 

Thou  bleeding  form,  thou  canst  not  say  I  plucked 

Thy  diadem  to  perch  it  on  my  brow.     Ye^ars 

Now  have  numbered  their  troublous  minutes  o'er, 

And  yet  thou  visitest  me,  thou  murdered  King. 

I  will  descend  unto  your  charnel-house, 

And  gaze  upon  your  slumbers — peaceful  slumbers. 

Shall  such  be  mine ?  [Takes  a  light. 

IRETON  enters.]         Ha !  Ireton  !  what  now  ? 
Thy  brow  doth  lower  portentous  as  the  thunder-cloud. 

IRETON. 

An  old  and  faithful  soldier  of  your  guard 
Craves  instantly  the  Lord  Protector's  ear. 

CROMWELL. 

,Give  him  admittance.     He  should  have  said 
'His  General's.     I  hate  these  titles  from  my  long-tried 
friends. 


116  C2O1I7VELL.  [ACT    V. 

Soldier  enters.']     Ha !  what  wouldst  them,  my  brave 
fellow  ? 

SOLDIER. 

Full  credence  to  my  tale,  and  instant  action, 

To  cut  short  a  deed  too  dreadful  to  be  thought  on. 

CEOMWELL. 

What  deed  ?     Speak !    speak ! — how  every  tale  unmans 
me ! 

SOLDIER. 

One  Dr.  Hewett,  Sir  Henry  Slugsby,  and  he 
Who  was  brave  Colonel  Sexby,  with  him 
Who  is  called  Snydercombe,  gave  me  this  purse 
And  these  bright  jewels,  in  order  to  procure 
Admittance  to  the  chapel  at  Whitehall. 

CROMWELL. 

They  are  my  friends.     You  did  accept  and  gave  it  them. 
Was  it  well  done  ?     I  saved  your  life  at  peril 
Of  mine  own  at  Drogheda,  striking  aside 
The  pike  was  at  your  throat — and  you'd  risk  mine 
For  a  paltry  bribe ! 

SOLDIER. 
Ay,  those  wild  Irish — 

CROMWELL. 

Nay,  nay,  not  so ; — they  are  a  gallant  and  a  misused  race. 
See  their  condition  now  under  just  laws  ; 
Their  land  is  teeming  with  productiveness. 
This  I,  Cromwell,  did.     But  for  your  story. 

SOLDIER. 

Into  the  chapel  they  have  but  now  borne 
Combustibles,  and  placed  a  match  to  secure 


8CEXE    VI.]  CROMWELL. 

The  conflagration  of  the  palace  before  midnight, 
While  they,  with  arms  prepared,  shall  shut  you  up 
Within  the  flames. 


CROMWELL. 


Oh !  horrible,  most  horrible.     Ireton, 

Take  this  ring.     Seize  them  at  once ;  let  instant  death 

Be  theirs,  if  that  his  tale  prove  true. 


IRETON. 

I  have  them,  one  and  all.     Fleetwood  and  Desborough 
Now  await  your  will.  [Exit. 

CROMWELL. 

My  gallant  guard,  take  this — a  trifling  gift. 

Your  self-approval  be  your  best  reward. 

But  for  myself,  I'll  make  you  captain  in  my  guard, 

With  treble  pay.     Attend  on  General  Ireton 

In  this  melancholy  task.  [Exit  soldier. 

Who  would  be  great,  if  blood  must  be  its  price? 

Or  I  must  let  these  bloodhounds  tear  me 

Limb  from  limb,  or  wade  myself  in  blood. 

Charles,  Charles,  thou  art  avenged !     Could  I, 

I  would  not  wake  you  into  life. 

I  almost  wish 

To  lay  me  by  thy  side.     I  will  once  more 
Look  on  thee  in  thy  rest. 

[Takes  the  light,  and  retires  slowly. 


118  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 


SCENE   SEVENTH. 
Vault — King  Charles's  Tomb. 

ELIZABETH  CBOIIWELL  enters,  dressed  in  ichite,  with  flowers, 
and,  singing,  strews  them  round,  and  lays  them  on  the 
tomb. 

Thou  sleepest  in  peace,  thou  murdered  innocence ! 

I  told  my  Charles  I  would  do  this.     Nightly  I've  decked 

His  couch  with  flowers  most  fair,  year  after  year. 

Alas !  poor  king — father  to  my  heart's  Lord. 

This  tender  office  ere  long,  I  feel,  must  fall 

To  other  hands.     Sleep  on — sleep  on — sleep  on ! 

A  step — who  comes  ?    It  is  my  father — what  does  he  here  ? 

I  must  be  gone. 

[ELIZABETHANS  round  to  one  side,  then  across  the  back, 
and  escapes. 

CBOMWELL  enters. 

I  heard  a  voice — meth ought  a  seraph's  voice, 

And  perfumed  air  did  greet  me  as  I  came. 

Do  angels  watch  his  bier  ?    What !  flowers 

Blooming  all  about  his  marble  couch — the  tenderest 

Springing  from  it.     He  sleeps  in  peace, 

Or  sure  these  sweet  attendants  all  would  fail 

And  fade  away — they  are  the  ministering  spirits 

Of  the  blest.     If  such  his  happy  end, 

Why  may  I  not  look  for  a  release 

From  all  life's  cares  and  toils  ? 

Was  his  hand  bloodless  ? 

Mine's  incarnadined  !     They  who  sought  his  fall, 

And  now  seek  mine — these  demi-devils — 

That  they  might  gain  their  ends,  sure  forged  the  tale 

That  my  son's  death  was  planned  and  urged 


SCENE   VII.]  CROMWELL.  HQ 

By  him,  that  they  might  damn  my  soul. 
King,  kinsman,  royal  master,  rouse  from  thy  slumbers, 
And  smile  on  me  forgiveness !     Think  of  the  agony 
A  father  feels,  his  butchered  son  before  him. 

Opens  the  lid  of  tomb.] 

What !  can  it  be  that  envious  time  has  leashed 

Its  ravenous  worms,  that  thus  thou  lookest 

As  when  thou  livedst,  and  on  thy  face  that  smile 

Thou  worest,  uttering  thy  last  "  Remember !" 

Men  doubt  thy  meaning — alas !  I  read  it  well ; 

For  ne'er  have  I  forgotten  thee.     By  day,  by  night, 

At  feast,  at  fast — waking  or  dreaming,  in  court 

Or  camp,  in  peaceful  council  or  dread  carnage — 

There,  before  me,  ever  rose  thy  august  head, 

And,  bleeding,  lisped  "  Remember."  [A  shriek. 

Hark,  that   piercing   shriek! — that   seraph's   voice — my 

child's— 
It  is  my  child's.     She  comes — what  would  she  here  ? 

ELIZABETH  enters  wildly. 

Blood,  blood,  blood — nothing  but  blood  ! 

My  dearest  brother's,  my  most  honored  king's ; 

And  now  my  reverend,  reverenced  friend's 

Must  swell  the  turgid  stream.     Who  are  you 

Have  usurped  my  place,  and  keep  your  vigils 

By  this  sainted  form  ?     Hence,  hence,  hence ! 

This  is  my  fond  prerogative,  given  me 

By  my  loving  lord,  that  should  have  been — 

The  king  that  yet  shall  be.     Come,  come,  I  pray  thee, 

Come !     I  know  thee  not ;  and  yet,  there  is  a  majesty 

In  thy  mien  betokens  power  and  compels  my  reverence. 

Come,  come ;  thou  yet  mayst  save  him.   Come,  this  way, 

This  way.  [She,  retiring,  beckons  to  him. 


120  CROMWELL.  [ACT    V. 

CROMWELL,  following. 
Oh !  woful  sight.     It  hath  o'erpowered  me. 

Scene  changes  to  banqueting  hall.     ELIZABETH  enters,  beck 
oning  to  CEOMWELL,  who  follows. 

My  child,  my  child,  what  means  this  frenzy  ? 
Whither,  say,  whither  wouldst  thou  lead  me  ? 
What,  what  wouldst  thou  ? 

ELIZABETH,  looking  wildly. 
Blood,  blood !     No,  no,  not  blood ;  that  thou  canst  give 

me. 

But  life,  dear  life — the  life,  once  taken,  gone 
Forever,  never,  never  to  be  returned. 

Awakening  to  consciousness.] 

Father !  is't  thou,  my  father  ?  my  fond,  my  doting  father  ? 
My  mind  has  wandered ;  but  I  know  you  now. 
The  child  of  thy  tender  love  kneels  for  a  boon — 
The  boon  of  an  old  man's  life — a  life  worth 
But  a  few  brief  years  at  best.     Thou  knowest 
What  'tis  to  die.     I  saw  you  there — I  know  'twas  you — 
Where  death  sweet  office  long  hath  given  me. 

CROMWELL. 

Ah  me !  ah  me !    How  all  my  honors  shrink 

To  nothingness,  my  glories  fade  from  sight, 

And  memory  pictures  horrors  to  my  view ! 

What  is  it  thou  askest,  my  fair,  though  faded  child  ? 

ELIZABETH. 

Ah !  now  thou  art  my  father.     Tender  tones, 
Long,  long  unheard,  though  never  yet  forgotten, 
Are  ushered  in  by  smiles — my  father's  smiles, 
The  smiles  were  sweetest  to  my  infant  heart, 
Though,  to  my  woman's,  strangers.     Why  wert  thou 


SCENE    VII.]  CROMWELL.  121 

Ever  great  ?     Was  to  be  goodness  not  enough  for  you  ? 
Give  me  his  life — my  friend's — old  Dr.  Hewett's. 
He  has  been  guilty  of  no  crime,  I  know. 

CROMWELL. 

Crime !  thou  sweet  innocent.     Thy  life  was  doomed. 
Was  there  no  crime  in  that  ?     Thy  mother's,  sister's, 
Brothers',  father's — all !     He  would  have  made 
Whitehall — one  hecatomb. 

ELIZABETH. 

Oh,  horrible !     Art  sure  ?     I  thought  that  he  loved  me. 
I  loved  him  ever. 

CROMWELL. 

Most  sure.    Thy  uncle,  Desborough — 
Thy  brothers,  Fleetwood,  Ingoldsby,  and  Ireton, 
Took  him  and  others  in  the  very  act, 

And  now  they  die — 
Thunder  heardJ\ 

Hark !  how  the  elements  are  rent  at  bare  recital 
Of  their  dread  intent !     The  lightning  quivers 
Through  these  vaulted  domes,  and  horrid  echoes 
Chase  from  room  to  room. 

ELIZABETH. 

Their  shrieks !  their  dying  shrieks !     Ah  me !  ah  me  I 
Father,  I  have  borne  much — could  have  borne  more; 
But  this  his  treachery  takes  such  horrid  form, 
I  shrink  at  thought  of  it.     My  heart ! 
My  Charles !  my  brain ! 

LADY  CROMWELL,  LADY  LAMBERT,  INGOLDSBY,  enter  as  she 
is  sicooning  in  CROMWELL'S  arms. 

LADY    CROMWELL. 

My  child!  my  child!  [They place  her  on  a  couch. 

6 


122  CROMWELL.  [ACT    ^ 

CROMWELL,  sinking  down  by  the  couch. 
My  child !  my  child !     Support  her,  Heaven, 
And  preserve  her  senses. 

Ha !  Ingoldsby,  what  news  ? 
Tfiunder  heard  againJ\ 

INGOLDSBY. 

The  elements  are  racked ; 

Disjoined,  our  loftiest  buildings  topple  to  the  dust ; 
St.  Paul's  spire,  reeling,  groans.     The  rooks 
And  daws  make  black  the  air,  and  even 
The  tiny  martlet  quails  the  heart 
With  its  shrill  cries,  driven  from  its  ancestral 
Moss-grown  home. 

CROMWELL. 

What  day  is  this,  that  man  and  nature, 

Thus  conjoined,  do  rack  earth  to  its  foundations  ? 

LADY   CROMWELL. 

My  lord,  it  is  your  day,  your  own  auspicious  day — 

THE  THIRD  DAY  OF  SEPTEMBER  ! 
CROMWELL. 

Ah !  is  it  so?  [Turning  to  DOCTOR. 

How  does  my  child  ? 

ELIZABETH  murmuring  low  words.] 

DOCTOR. 

The  wild  delirium  feasts  upon  her  brain, 
And  burns  up  every  sense,  save  some  dark, 
Dread  memories.     She  raves  of  Charles — of  blood. 

CROMWELL. 

My  dearest  daughter  and  fair  nature — both 

Whom  I've  best  loved  and  worshipped,  next  to  God — 


SCENE    VII.]  CROMWELL.  123 

Both  crazed  and  mad ! 

Ah !  my  old  sickness  comes  upon  me. 
"  O  Lord !  thy  miserable  servant 
Bows  to  thy  will  in  all  humility, 
And  craves  thy  grace.     Bless  thou  this  people. 
Thou  hast  made  me  a  mean  instrument 
To  do  them  some  good,  and  Thee,  I  trust, 
Some  service.     Many  there  are  have  set 
Too  high  a  value  on  me,  though  others  wish, 
And  would  be  glad  of,  my  decease. 
However  thou  dost  dispose  of  me,  my  Lord, 
Continue  to  do  good  to  and  abide 
"With  them.     Give  them  consistency  of  judgment — 
One  heart  and  mutual  love,  to  go  on 
With  the  work  of  reformation,  and  make 
The  name  of  Christ,  a  name  at  which  every  knee 
Shall  bend  and  every  head  shall  bow, 
Glorious  throughout  the  world.     Teach  those 
Who  look  too  much  upon  thy  instruments, 
To  more  upon  Thyself  depend.     Pardon  all  those 
(They  are  thy  people)  would  trample  upon  the  dust 
Of  this  poor  worm,  for  our  blessed  Redeemer's  sake."* 

IRETON  enters,  talcing  his  liandl\ 

How  now,  my  Ireton, 
How  is  my  child  ? 

IRETON. 
She  is  dead ! 

CROMWELL,  caressing  ELIZABETH. 

Dead!  nay,  nay. 

Gone !  gone !  gone  home  ! 

I  too  shall  go. 

Her  sainted  spirit  heralds  mine. 

*  Guizot. 


124  CROMWELL.  [ACT  v. 

My  friends — 

Let  Richard  be  ray  heir.     Guard  ye  him  well. 
At  my  interment,  I  pray  you,  have  no  vain  ceremonials.  - 
'Tis  but  the  form  that  dies. 
Publish  to  the  world  that  Cromwell's  last  words 
Were,  that 

"  Where  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is, 
There  is  Liberty," 

And  that  'tis  cradled 

In  New  England  now,  to  grow  a  Hercules 
Shall  bestride  all  earth. 

So  Cromwell's  teachings  yet  shall  rule  the  world. 
Mankind  shall  say,  in  times  to  come,  that  here  died 
"  The  best  thing  ever  England  did."* 

A.  fearful  peal  of  thunder  and  flash  of  lightning,     IRETON 
struck  dead. 

Hark  to  that  fearful  peal, 

As  though  heaven  crashed 
Seeing  IRETON.] 
Thy  knell,  my  Ireton. 

Thus  only  couldst  thou  die. 

A.  brilliant  light  from  above  thrown  upon  CROMWELL,  kneel 
ing  by  ELIZABETH.    His  head  drops  on  her  form. 

The  Gates  of  Glory  open  stand, 

And  I  am  summoned,  f 

TABLEAU. 

Curtain  falls  slowly. 

*  Carlyle. 

f  The  Court  of  France  went  into  mourning,  wearing  dark-blue  velvet. 
— Guizot. 


THOMAS    A'BECKET. 


THOMAS     A'BECKET 

A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 
THOMAS  A'BECKET. 

SIR  JOHN  OP  SALISBURY,  ) 

[•   His  friends. 
SIR  PETER  OP  BLOIS,        J 

ALBERT  and  HUGH,  his  attendants. 

HENRY  II.  of  England. 

LORD  FITZURSE,  Henry's  favorite. 

LORDS  DE  BROO,  DE  MOREVTLLE,  DE  TRACY. 

SIR  RICHARD  BRITO. 

REGINALD  DE  WARRENNE. 

GERVASE  DE  CORNHILL. 

EARLS  LEICESTER  and  CORNWALL. 

BISHOPS  OP  LONDON,  SALISBURY,  WORCESTER,  WINCHESTER,  and  YORK. 

SIR  RICHARD  DE  HASTINGS,  Grand  Prior  of  England's  Knights  Templars, 

then  70  years  of  age. 
PHILIP  OF  ROME,  Legate. 
SIB  GUY  DE  LUSIGNAN,  Knight  of  Flanders. 
KNIGHTS  OP  FRANCE. 
LUCILLE,  Niece  of  A'Becket. 
MATILDE,  Cousin  to  Lucille. 
LORDS  and  LADIES. 

TIME: 

Reign  of  Henry  II.  of  England,  A.  D.  1163-1170.     Scene  lies  in  England, 
Flanders,  and  France. 


A'BECKET. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE   FIRST. 
Sea-shore  after  a  storm — Fragments  of  a  wreck. 

SIR  RICHARD  BRITO  and  LORD  FITZURSE  enter  from  oppo 
site  sides. 

BRITO. 

What  means  this  haste,  my  Lord ? 

FITZURSE. 

Hast  thou  not  heard  ? 
A'Becket  and  the  King  are  foes. 

BRITO. 

A'Becket  and  the  King !  those  late  dear  friends ! 
They  cannot  long  be  foes :  A'Becket  is  too  great 
Not  to  forgive  his  wrongs ;  the  King  too  weak, 
In  these  wild  troublous  times,  in  men  of  mighty  intellect- 
He  feels  it,  Sir ;  we  feel  it,  Sir,  though  we  do  hate 
The  man  who  so  o'ertops  us.     You,  in  the  brief  recital, 
Teach  this  fact — saying,  "  A'Becket  and  the  King 
Are  sworn  foes" — see,  how  the  priest  comes  first ; 
So  stands  he  in  the  thoughts  of  every  man. 

FITZURSE. 

And  yet  I've  heard  that  he  was  humbly  born, 
But  rose  so  fast,  that,  like  the  young  fledgling, 
Soars  too  high  at  first — singeing  his  wings 


THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  i. 

He  weakened  them,  and  now,  full  grown, 
They  will  not  bear  him  up — hunter  and  hawker 
As  he  is — this  churlish  priest,  born  for  the  torment 
Of  the  Anglo-Norman  race.     A  tradesman's  son, 
No  more — 

BKITO. 

A  tradesman's  son  !     Know,  my  young  Lord, 
His  father  was  a  warrior  too,  as  honest,  Sir, 
As  brave — and  honesty  makes  any  trade 
An  honor ;  and  more,  his  mother,  tho'  of  another  clime, 
Owned  gentle  blood.     When  a  mere  boy, 
He  was  sent  to  Rome  by  Theobald,  Archbishop 
Then  of  England,  and  straightway  from  His  Holiness 
Bore  letters,  prohibiting  the  crowning 
Of  the  late  King  Stephen's  son — thus  firmly 
Seating  Henry  on  his  throne : — thereafter 
Soon  appointed  England's  High  Chancellor 
And  prince  Henry's  preceptor.     Courtier  complete, 
Unbounded  revenues,  with  seven  hundred  knights 
And  twelve  hundred  horsemen  in  his  pay — 
A  regal  state — he  made  the  campaign 
To  Toulouse.     Next  he  was  to  Paris  sent,  to  treat 
Of  an  alliance  between  the  young  daughter 
Of  France's  king  and  our  Prince  Henry.      Ay,  and  re 
turned 

With  her  to  England.     He  never  failed. 
A  tradesman's  son,  you  say — his  craft  he  ne'er  forgot. 
Then  Theobald  died — whom  to  the  primacy 
Could  Henry  raise  but  him,  the  great  A'Becket  ? 
First  primate  sprung  from  Anglo-Saxon  race ; 
Honored  and  treasured  by  all  of  Saxon  blood ; 
Received  by  Welsh  with  the  most  loud  acclaim, 
Their  first  Lord  Primate  under  Norman  rule — 
For  though  I  hate  him,  I  must  own  him  great. 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  7 

The  King  till  now  did  love  him  well — 

What  is  the  cause 
Of  strife? 

FITZURSE. 

Unto  the  Pope  he  hath  complained 
Of  the  laity's  infringement  of  the  Church's  rights, 
And  his  assent  refusing  to  the  Constitutions 
Of  Clarendon,  has  fled  to  France.     The  King 
At  Northampton  holds  his  court  to-morrow ; 
His  counsellors  are  all  summoned. 

BEITO. 

This  I  for  many  a  day  have  feared. 
Go  you  not  to  the  chase  ?  our  Liege  at  noon 
Rides  forth.    Yet  stay — who  have  we  here  ?    Lord  Salis 
bury, 
Storm-worn  and  sad ! 

Enter  LORD  JOHN  of  SALISBURY. 

You  here,  my  Lord,  in  this  dark  hour  ? 
Methought  the  air  of  France  ere  this  did  fan  your  brow. 
What  news  from  Lord  A'Becket  ? 

SALISBURY. 

None,  none ;  but  adverse  winds 
Have  raged  since  England's  Primate  set  sail 
For  France.     How  fares  our  Liege  to-day  ? 

BRITO. 

Right  well. 

He's  for  the  chase  at  noon,  whither  I  haste 
To  wait  on  him — let's  on,  Fitzurse — Farewell,  Lord  Salis 
bury  ! 

[BRITO  and  FITZURSE  Exeunt. 

SALISBURY. 

Farewell,  most  valiant  lords — mad  King,  sad  minister ; 
Oh !  where  will  this  day's  business  end,  his  favorite 


8  THOMAS  A'EECKET.  [ACT  i. 

Long,  now  fallen  and  fled !     These  Norman  lords 

Ne'er  loved  the  Saxon  priest — but  his  great  genius 

Bowed  them  to  his  will.     Queen  Eleanor 

Never  loved  her  King — hates  him — 

While  she  lives,  she'll  never  cease  to  work  their  ill. 

Meet  helpmate  has  she  proved  to  England's  King  ; 

Her  uncle's  mistress  and  the  Turk's  light  of  love — 

For  this,  repudiated  by  Louis  "  the  young." 

Our  Norman  King,  to  rule  her  wide  domains, 

After  six  weeks  made  her  his  queen, 

Bartering  his  honor  and  his  happiness. 

I  see  her  hand  in  this ;  she  wooed  A'Becket's  love, 

And  won  his  deep  despite — return  like  this, 

No  woman  e'er  forgave. 

Here  have  I  sought 

Since  yesternight  for  those  would  brave  the  fury 
Of  the  storm,  and  bear  these  letters  to  my  wronged  friend, 
England's  great  Primate — great  in  his  youth 
In  feats  of  arms,  learned  in  legendary  lore, 
Foremost  in  the  court  and  camp,  and  first  in  Henry's  favor 
Till  he  bade  him  wear  the  Primate's  robes — 
Then  he  foretold  this  hour !     It's  now  three  days 
Since  he  set  sail  for  France,  in  all  which  time 
A  tempest  fierce  hath  raged,  with  winds  adverse 
To  him — as  though  fate  would  not  he  should  leave 
His  land.     But  lo  !  a  sail !     Mayhap  it  bears  him  back. 
I'll  to  their  aid.  [Exeunt. 

SIR  PETER  of  BLOIS  enters,  his  garments  wet  and  soiled. 

SIR  PETER. 

A'Becket  shipwrecked  on  his  native  shore ! 
He  who  hath  piloted  through  so  many  a  storm ! 
It  augurs  ill  for  him.     Is  there  no  end 
To  his  great  cares  ?     Alas !  I  fear  me,  none, 


SCKNE  I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  S 

For  e'en  the  elements  seem  opposed  to  him. 
No  sooner  had  we  left  this  mighty  realm, 
Albion's  white  cliffs  slumbering  in  virgin  beauty, 
Than,  robed  in  mist,  all  faded  from  our  view, 
And  fierce  old  ocean,  with  a  lion's  roar, 
Struck  panic  'mid  the  seamen.     So  we  who  hoped 
In  France  to  feast  to-day,  must  break  our  fast 
In  turmoil  and  in  strife. 

SALISBURY  enters. 
Who  comes  ?     What !  you,  my  friend  ? 

SALISBURY. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  tho'  in  such  sad  plight ! 
Thank  Heaven,  you  have  weathered  out  the  storm. 
How  fare  you,  Sii*,  and  our  great  friend,  A'Becket  ? 

BLOIS. 

As  well  as  ever,  though  in  wisdom  wiser. 
We  left  the  port  with  favoring  gales, 
But  soon  the  scene  was  changed ;  an  angry  sea 
Tossed  our  poor  bark,  like  bittern,  o'er  its  waves, 
While  she  with  true  heart  breasted  all  their  force, 
And  still  obedient  to  the  helmsman's  rule, 
After  three  days'  fierce  conflict  with  the  storm, 
Though  stranded  on  yon  shore,  is  sound  as  ever, 
Ready  again  to  cope  with  them. 
This  was  for  us,  my  friend.     It  bids  us  brave 
The  storms  of  fate,  though  we  are  backward  driven 
By  their  force.     What  did  you  here  ? 

SALISBURY. 

I  waited 

Till  the  storm  should  lull,  these  papers  to  dispatch  to  you. 
The  King  had  just  rode  forth  unto  the  chase, 
When  news  was  ta'en  him,  A'Becket  and  his  friends 
Had  fled  to  France.     Thereon  he  ordered 
1* 


10  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  i. 

A  great  council  to  be  held  at  Northampton, 

And  questioned  why  he  left — asking 

If  the  same  realm  could  not  contain  them  both. 

BLOIS. 

No,  Sir  John,  never  while  things  are  thus ; 
A'Becket  must  yield  or  combat  with  him  manfully ; 
The  last  it  must  be.     There  is  no  choice  but  this. 

[Pauses. 

Heard  I  aright  ?     Gone  forth  unto  the  chase  ? 
How  can  he  wear  a  heart  so  light  in  hour 
Like  this  ?     'Tis  ever  thus  among  the  great 
In  power,  that  one  man's  sorrow  proves 
Some  other's  joy.     So  he  now  revels — riots 
In  his  misery.     Who  have  been  with  you 
Since  I  left? 

SALISBURY. 

Young  Lords  Fitzurse  and  Brito. 

BLOIS. 

Fitzurse !     You  entertained  him  as  a  friend ; 
Though  in  the  service  of  a  foe,  his  heart 
Inclines  to  us. 

SALISBURY. 

Even  so  methinks,  my  Lord ; 
But  come — let's  to  A'Becket's  home,  where  all 
Do  anxiously  wait  news  of  him. 

BLOIS. 

We  will — when  there,  we  must  prepare  a  numerous  suite 
To  wait  on  him  to  Northampton.     'Twere  well 
To  make  a  goodly  show  of  friends.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  11 


SCENE   SECOND. 
Gothic  Hall. 

A'BECKET — alone. 

So  much  for  being  willing  slave  to  power ! 
Had  I  but  sought  my  pleasure  and  my  weal, 
Forgetting  his,  whose  shadow  I  have  beon, 
Not  his  thought  my  thought,  his  every  wish  my  act, 
All  had  been  well ! 

But  no,  not  so ;  I,  to  enhance 
His  glory,  wealth,  and  power,  to  jealous  envy 
Have  exposed  myself,  and  now  must  fall 
Even  like  Lucifer,  lost  in  the  radiance 
I  have  heralded! 

Be  firm,  my  heart,  be  firm ! 
'Tis  envy  speaks ! 

The  tale  while  told  sounds  loudly, 
But  palls  when  probed,  bringing  dishonor 
On  the  babbler's  head ! 

'Tis  weightless  as  the  story 

The  old  man  tells,  walking  in  second  childishness. 
Why  should  I  be  moved  ?     Silence,  thou  petty  voice, 
I  will  not  deign  to  note  their  idle  words. 
But,  ha !  a  step — 

No  gentle,  sylphlike  step ; 
I  hoped  my  child's.     They  do  approach — 

Retires  one  sidel\  I'll  note  them  here. 

FITZURSE  enters,  looking  round. 

FITZTTRSE. 

How  reverend  is  the  air  pervades  these  halls ! 
Hov»r  like  their  great  inhabitant,  time  furrowed ! 
Firm  they  stand,  ready  to  cope  with  fiercest  elements. 


12  THOMAS   A'BECKET.  [ACT  i. 

Oh  !  'tis  a  noble  house  !  fit  home  for  such  a  heart  ; 
Would  it  were  tuned  to  softer  measures, 
That  his  step  might  move  in  harmony 
"With  his  king's.     Gone,  gone  to  France.     I  would 
It  were  not  so  —  for  something  tells  me  that  my  fate 
,  And  thine,  great  soul  !  are  linked  together. 
A  voice  !  a  step  !  [A'BECKET  comes  forward, 

What  !  thou,  our  Lord  Archbishop  ! 
Welcome,  my  reverend  father,  to  your  own  land  ! 
No  home  like  this  for  yoiu 

A'BECKET. 

Much  moved.]  Thanks,  thanks,  my  son. 

My  Liege  —  How  fares  my  Liege  ? 


Well  ;  save  in  wanting  you. 
A'BECKET. 

My  King  !  my  King  !  to  think  it  should  be  thus  ! 
But  he  required  I  should  assume  this  office  — 
And  I  obeyed  amid  the  formal  greetings 
Of  the  Lord  Bishops,  who  ever  hated  me. 
Then  with  my  office  I  straightway  changed 
My  robes,  my  habits,  and  my  home  ;  fasting 
Where  I  had  feasted  ;  no  more  proud  Norman's  favorite  ; 
Saxon  born,  I  was  the  people's  friend. 

But  stay,  whom  have  we  here  ? 

MATILDE  and  LUCILLE  enter,  with  cloaks  on. 
MATILDE,  embracing  him. 

My  uncle,  my  dear  uncle  ! 

A'BECKET. 
What  !  bravest  thou  the  storm  ? 

FITZUKSE. 

Angelic  maids  ! 


SCENE  II.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  13 

A'BECKET,  embracing  Lucille. 
Thou  too,  my  fair  Lucille !     What  did  you  there  ? 

LUCILLE. 

I  sought,  with  dear  Matilde,  tidings  of  you,  my  Lord. 

FITZUBSE,  aside. 

And  then,  to  wend  to  heaven. 
A'BECKET. 
My  blessings  be  with  you. 

Daughters,  my  Lord  Fitzurse ! 
FITZUBSE. 
Fair  ladies,  at  your  service. 

FITZUESE,  MATILDE,  and  LUCILLE  retire  one  side;  on  the 
other  enter  RICHABD  DE  HASTINGS  and  PHILIP  OF  ROME, 
with  attendants  and  great  show  of  friends. 

HASTINGS. 
Our  service,  my  Lord  Archbishop. 

A'BECKET. 

Aside.]  This  Norman  Lord ! 

To  them.']     You're  welcome,  Sirs. 

Pray,  what  may  be  your  errand  ? 
A  noble  one  it  should  be,  that  is  borne 
By  the  Grand  Prior  of  England's  Knights  Templars. 

HASTINGS. 

'Tis  from  your  King  I  come ;  grieved  deeply 

By  your  hasty  course,  and  much  moved  withal, 

His  language  is,  "  That  his  loyal  subjects 

Ever  observe  his  will ; " — that  he  requires 

Your  consent  to  these  the  Constitutions 

Of  Clarendon.  [Pro duces  scroll. 

Then  reads — ] 
"  Which  do  provide,  that  all  control  of  church  as  well  as 


14  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  i. 

state,  should  be  intrusted  to  the  civil  courts.  Her  clerks, 
accused  of  any  crime,  be  tried  by  them.  No  clergy  leave 
the  realm  without  Consent  of  King.  That  excommunicates 
should  not  be  bound  to  give  security  for  their  continuance 
in  some  fixed  abode.  That  all  appeals,  in  causes  spiritual, 
be  carried  from  the  Primate  to  the  King,  making  his  judg 
ment  final.  That  the  Archbishops,  Bishops,  and  other  spirit 
ual  dignitaries  should  be  regarded  as  Barons  of  the  realm, 
possess  their  privileges  and  be  subjected  to  the  burdens  of 
that  rank — to  attend  the  King  in  his  Great  Councils  and  as 
sist  at  all  trials  criminal.  The  revenues  of  vacant  Sees  to 
belong  to  the  King ;  and  that  the  clergy  no  longer  pretend 
to  the  right  of  enforcing  payment  of  debts  contracted  by 
oath  or  promise,  but  should  leave  these  lawsuits,  equally 
with  other,  to  the  determination  of  the  civil  courts ;  and 
that  the  sons  of  villeins  be  not  clerks  ordained  without  their 
lord's  consent." 

A'BECKET. 

Requires  he  this  ?    My  Lords,  you  know  not  what  you  ask ; 
Go,  raze  our  churches,  chapels,  convents,  ay,  our  homes, 
Expel  the  clergy  from  his  vast  domains, 
And  you  could  do  no  worse ! 

Nor  is  his  message 

Couched  in  gentle  words,  although,  my  Lord, 
In  your  delivery  it  loses  its  sharper  part ; 
Still  would  I  that  you  had  not  borne  it. 
Your  office  is  not  raised  in  my  esteem — 
Degraded  to  the  messenger  of  an  angry  King, 
For  passion  urges  this,  and  as  kings  are 
Above  their  fellow-men,  so  should  they  be 
Above  their  frailties ;  but  I  would  learn 
What  further  he  designs. 

HASTINGS. 

Pray,  be  not  moved,  my  noble  Lord  Archbishop : 
First,  he  commands  you,  his  late  Primate — 


SCENE  II.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  15 

A'BECKET,  hastily. 
His  late  Primate !  who  may  he  be  ? 
Who  was  the  Primate  is  the  Primate  still. 

HASTINGS. 

Such  was  his  word,  and  he  requires  you  surrender 
Instantly  the  Castles  of  Eye  and  Berkham, 
With  all  their  honors,  and  deliver  up 
The  culprit,  now  in  your  hands,  charged 
With  such  grave  offence,  in  wedding 
Lord  Rupert's  daughter. 

A'BECKET. 
Unequal  birth  his  only  fault — would  at  some  mightier's 

gate 

No  graver  lay !  does  he  so  soon  forget  fam'd  Rosamond, 
So  fair !  so  frail !  the  only  daughter  of  De  Clifford, 
Our  great  Saxon  Lord,  the  prop  and  stay 
Of  his  old  age,  degraded  to  the  leman 
Of  his  Norman  King,  to  whom  he  was  too  faithful  ? 
Accursed  was  the  day  when  Harold  fell, 
For  sin  hath  shadowed  all  our  ways  since  then ! 
But  stay,  bear  this  from  A'Becket  of  Canterbury 
To  Henry  of  England,  King  but  by  accident 
Of  birth  :  say  that  I  neither  will  surrender  aught, 
Nor  yield  unto  his  will. 

Whence  is  his  power 
That  he  should  trample  upon  me,  in  all 
His  equal,  save  in  honors  ? 

PHILIP   OF   BOMB. 

My  Lord  Archbishop,  pray  be  advised ; 
Beware  a  breach  with  King  so  powerful. 

A'BECKET. 

Philip  of  Rome,  we,  Anglo-Saxon  born, 
Are  free  by  nature,  as  the  wind  that  blows ; 


16  THOMAS    A  BECKET.  [ACT  I. 

We  bow  no  suppliant  knee  to  poAver, 

Save  'tis  the  power  of  mind  f 

The  poorest  hind  imy  bear  the  proudest  head 

That  walks  un  sceptred  through  the  land. 

Genius  may  rear  her  throne  beneath  the  hovel's  roof, 

And  there  her  worshippers  in  crowds  will  kneel. 

I  am  the  people's  friend,  the  lordlings'  foe, 

When  arrogance  marks  their  steps — go,  Sirs, 

And  tell  the  King  I  will  not  yield ! 

HASTINGS. 

I  fear,  Archbishop,  this  is  ill  advised ; 
He  is  enraged  with  what  has  passed  already. 

A'BECKET,  much  moved. 

Well,  let  him  be  enraged :  what's  that  to  me  ? 
Why  should  I  heed  his  anger  ?     Leave  him  awhile, 
And  he'll  grow  calm  and  cool.     The  hardest  steel 
Not  long  retains  its  heat ;  the  mettled  steed 
Will  soonest  tamely  yield,  outworn  by  his  own  spirit. 

HASTINGS. 

Those  honors,  my  dear  Lord,  they  are  of  mighty  value. 
Pray  be  advised !     We  would  not  have  you  lose 
Your  high  estate,  and  all  its  great  attendants. 

A'BECKET,  aside. 

They  are  moved,  the  coward  hearts!     'Tis  for  themselves 
They  fear.     My  privileges  curtailed,  where  are  their  own  ? 

Aloud.] 

My  high  estate!  my  honors!  Who  can  disrobe  me  of  them? 
They  were  born  with  me,  with  me  shall  die !     My  office 
I  would  resign  as  easily  as  I  lay  aside 
This  robe — [aside.]     In  faith,  I  find  that  it  is  somewhat 

worn, 
I  would  a  newer,  if  not  plainer  guise. 


SCENE  II.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  1 

HASTINGS. 

All  England,  Sir,  would  mourn  your  loss. 

A'BECKET. 

And  so  she  should,  for  England  holds  me  in  her  chains ; 
I  am  the  veriest  slave  that  ever  lived. 
No  mother  ever  felt  more  pangs,  than  I 
For  England — there's  not  a  churl  in  all  the  land, 
But  I  am  bound  to  him  by  bands  of  adamant, 
My  heart-strings  webbed  in  his — 

King's  gifts  I  value  not. 
To  PHILIP  OF  ROME.] 
What  say  you,  Prelate  ? 

PHILIP    OF    ROME. 

Give  him  his  way. 
A'BECKET. 

Never ! 
So  help  me  Heaven ! 

Enter  EARLS  of  LEICESTER  and  CORNWALL. 

What  would  ye,  noble  Sirs  ? 
CORNWALL. 
That  you  should  let  King  Henry  have  his  will. 

A'BECKET. 

You  too,  my  Lords !     I  had  hoped  else  than  this. 
In  you  I  had  confided,  till  the  waters  rose 
E'en  to  their  highest  height. 

O  ~ 

Aside.]  Ah !  well  I  know 

A  dove's  upon  the  wing,  comes  from  a  storm-proof  ark. 

A  lo  udJ\ 

I  may  not  give  him  way — for  nothing  then  will  satisfy. 
The  Barons  all  are  his — the  Bishops,  overawed, 
Dare  not  oppose  his  will.     Leicester  and  Cornwall, 
Ye  know  not  what  you  do. 


18  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  r. 

HASTINGS  casts  himself  on  his  knees  before  A'BECKET. 

HASTINGS. 

Father,  upon  my  knees, 

I  do  beseeech  you  yield.     I  never  knelt  before 
To  any  man. 

A'BECKET. 

Arise,  and  never  kneel  again, 
Save  unto  God.  [HASTINGS  rises. 

What  judgment  tells  me's  wrong, 
Entreaties  never  will  make  right. 

HASTINGS. 

If  you  regard  your  or  your  Church's  safety, 
Provoke  him  not — 'twere  vain,  my  Lord — fruitless, 
All  opposition.     He,  on  his  purpose  bent, 
Will  have  revenge  on  all  who  dare  oppose. 

A'BECKET. 

My  Lord,  you  know  me  not.     I  have  no  fears — 
To  yield  my  will,  of  all  things,  most  I  dread. 
A  dangerous  precedent  it  would  be 
Both  to  myself  and  King ;  for  unto  me 
Succeeding  trials  would  each  easier  seem, 
And  I  should  yield,  until  my  resolution 
All  was  lost — while  unto  him  'twould  be 
Removal  of  the  sole  restraint  upon  his  lawless  will. 
My  Lords,  I  love  my  King  (we  were  as  brothers 
Till  this  hapless  hour),  and  cannot  see  him  leap 
Into  the  gulf  of  his  mad  hot  desires. 

[Lords  confer  aside. 
A'BECKET,  aside. 

Should  I  now  yield,  what  will  my  country  gain  ? 
Yet  is  it  wise,  beggared  to  be  of  power, — 
That  which,  of  all  things,  least  I'd  bear  to  lose  ? 
I  cannot,  will  not,  whatsoe'er  the  cost. 


SCENE  III.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  19 

HASTINGS. 

My  Lord,  you  are  alone  in  this. 

A'BECKET. 

My  Lord ! 

'Tis  virtue !  and  I  would  rather  be  alone 
With  her,  than  compassed  round  by  all  the  hosts 
Of  vice.     Of  all  my  friends,  are  there  none  left  ? 
Not  one.    [ylsz'Je.]    The  wise  man  to  the  whirlwind  bows 
His  head. 

[Aloucf]    I  will  attend  the  Court. 

Farewell!  farewell! 

\Exit  Lords  on  one  side — A'BECKET  and  friends  on  the 
other  side^ 


SCENE   THIRD. 

Grand  Council  Room  at  Northampton — Throne  with  steps — Range  of 
seats  for  Lords. 

BRITO. 

Where  are  your  thoughts,  Fitzurse  ? 

rrrzuBSE. 

In  heaven. 

BRITO. 

In  heaven  !  that's  strange,  indeed,  in  you. 
What  took  them  there  ? 

FITZURSE. 

The  sight  of  one  newly  come  thence 
To  earth — the  fairest  being  ever  eye  beheld. 

BRITO. 

Indeed ;  whose  house  may't  be  is  worthy  such 
A  visitant? 

FITZURSE. 

Thou'lt  rival  me,  I  fear. 


20  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  i. 

BRITO. 

Indeed,  not  I ;  who  is  this  paragon  ? 

FITZTTRSE. 

None  other  than  A'Becket's  niece. 

BRITO. 

A'Becket's  niece ! 

Banish  that  thought,  my  Lord.     The  King  will  frown 
On  this  new  fancy. 

FITZUESE. 

Well !  let  him  frown ! 
I  live  not  in  the  fear  of  kingly  ire. 

BRITO. 

Love  makes  you  bold,  young  Lord.     Oh,  clip  its  wings 
Before  it  takes  too  wild  a  flight — 

Lo,  where  he  comes, 
And  angered  too,  'twould  seem. 
FITZURSE. 

'Tis  with  A'Becket.     [Aside.]     Oh  cruel,  cursed  fate ! 
That  my  youth's  follies  do  compel  this  service 
To  the  King,  while  fair  Lucille,  A'Becket's  niece, 
Reigns  my  heart's  queen,     [^.fowe?.]     My  Liege. 
Enter  HENRY  and  his  Court,     fie  ascends  the  throne. 

HENRY. 

Where  stays  this  priest  ?     Summon  him  hither  on  the  in 
stant — 
Kings  wait  not  on  their  subjects'  pleasure. 

FITZURSE. 

He  comes,  my  Liege,  clothed  in  his  robes  of  office 
As  Lord  Archbishop — bearing  the  silver  cross. 

HENRY. 
Why  comes  he  thus  ? 

FITZTTRSE. 

It  is  St.  Stephen's  Day. 


SCENE   III.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  21 

HENRY. 

So  hath  it  been  for  years,  yet  never  came  he  thus. 
Bishop  of  London,  preside  you  here. 

My  Lords  temporal, 

Attend  on  me — the  judgment  we  will  await 
Within — or  I  to  be  the  King  shall  cease, 
Or  he  to  be  Archbishop. 

As  HENRY  leaves  the  throne  A'BECKET  enters,  holding  the 
silver  cross  before  him,  and  takes  his  seat  in  silence; 
his  friends  behind  him,  all  magnificently  attired. 

LONDON. 

My  Lord  Archbishop,  why  do  you  come 
Thus  armed  with  the  silver  cross  ? 

LORD. 

Tis  in  defiance 

Of  our  Liege,  your  coming  thus  into  his  Court. 
But  he  has  a  sword  whose  point  is  sharper  far 
Than  that  of  your  pastoral  staff. 
A'BECKET. 

Where  is  my  King  ?     He  should  preside  to-day ; 
'Tis  so  prescribed  by  "  Customs  of  the  Realm." 

LONDON. 

Displeased  with  your  approach  in  such  unseemly  mode, 
lie  doth  pass  judgment  in  the  inner  Court. 

A'BECKET. 

Unseemly  mode !  the  Church  protects  her  own — 
She  is  my  Counsellor — unto  her  I  trust. 
Justice  hath  fled  this  realm.  [LEICESTER  enters. 

LEICESTER. 

My  Lord,  enraged,  he  swears 
He'll  be  revenged.     Oh  pray,  have  pity 
On  yourself  and  brethren.     Provoke  him  now 
No  more. 


22  THOMAS  A'BEOKET.  [ACT  i. 

A'BECKET. 

What  words  are  these  before  the  Great  Council 
Of  the  realm ! 
Aside.]     Nay,  rather  let  him  not  provoke  me  more. 

CORNWALL  enters. 

CORNWALL. 

It  is  determined,  by  the  King's  privy  council, 
You  be  impeached  of  perjury  and  high  treason. 
The  first,  in  that  you  observe  not  the  Constitutions 
Of  Clarendon — the  last,  in  that  you  disobey 
His  orders. 

A'BECKET. 

What !  have  I  then  no  friends  ? 

CORNWALL. 

You  have  your  King,  for  this  he  doth  reject, 

And  but  demands  that  you  shall  subject  stand 

Unto  the  Court's  judgment,  in  the  pecuniary  charges. 

A'BECKET. 

This,  too,  I  do  refuse — the  judgment 
Of  no  temporal  court  will  I  obey. 

FITZURSE  enters]  What  more  ? 

rrrzuRSE. 

My  Lord,  the  King's  permission 

By  the  Bishops  is  besought,  that,  on  the  score  of  perjury, 
They  to  Rome,  against  you,  may  appeal.     To  this 
He  doth  consent. 

A'BECKET. 

The  Bishops,  say  you  ? 
Am  I  then  prejudged  without  a  hearing  ? 
'Tis  enough,  I  mark  what  you  do  say. 

Aside] 

Ay,  mark  it  well.     'Tis  fitting,  very  fitting, 
You,  whose  features  wear  her  lineaments, 


SCENE   III.]  THOMAS    A'lJECKET.  23 

Whom  Henry  wronged,  as  me,  he  wrongeth  now, 
Should  bear  this  message  of  his  tyranny — 
Thus  searing  our  wrongs  upon  my  heart. 
Alas !  poor  Rosamond ! 

LEICESTER. 

The  Peers,  besides,  do  you  pronounce 
Guilty  of  perjury  and  high  treason ; 
But  still,  the  alternative  allow 
Of  rendering  your  accounts,  and  settling 
Any  balance  now  against  you. 

Do  this,  my  Lord, 
Or  hear  from  me  your  sentence. 

A'BECKET,  starting  and  rising. 
My  sentence,  ere  you've  tried  me  ?     Why,  I 
Can  charges  bring  will  crush  you  with  their  sounding, 
Though  ye  are  backed  by  hosts  of  friends, 
While  I've  but  one — my  well-known  "  Truth," 
Which  is  far  stronger  in  its  single  strength 
Than  all  King  Henry's  power. 

Tho'  I  have  ventured 

On  an  unquiet  sea,  I'll  brave  its  utmost  fury. 
The  adder  is  not  malignant,  yet,  too  clc;;ely  press'd, 
May  turn  and  sting  the  heel. 

My  sentence !     Ye  vain,  proud  Lords,  ye  have  not  words 
In  your  vocabulary  to  frame  my  fitting  judgment ; 
Ye  minions  of  a  King  who  has  roused  a  lion 
That  he  dare  not  face ! 
My  sentence,  Sirs,  is  written  in  the  skies ; 
It  is  recorded  on  the  azure  vault  of  heaven ; 
Its  letters  the  glittering  stars — heralds 
Of  my  future  glories. 

As  easy  might 
Yon  angry  sea,  whose  wildest  waves, 


24  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  i. 

E'en  in  its  fiercest  rage,  are  stayed  by  this  rock-bound 

shore, 

Strive  to  wash  out  what  is  recorded  there — 
I  have  no  measure  for  such  meanness ! 

ALL. 
Do  you  hear  him  ? 

A'BECKET  turns  to  go,  when  a  clamor  is  raised  against 

him.     He  steps  back  and  says — 
What  noise  is  this  ?     Oh,  were  it  not  forbidden 
By  my  orders,  with  arms  I  would  defend  myself. 

The  doors  of  the  apartment  in  which  the  King  is  sitting 
are  now  thrown  open,  and  A'BECKET  discovers  a  bndy 
of  Knights,  with  their  garments  tucked  up  and  their 
swords  drawn,  when  HENRY  approaches  him  hastily, 
and  exclaims — 

UENBY. 

So !  so !  Sir  Priest.     What !  this  unto  ourselves  ? 
My  Lords,  we  deem  it  fitting  we  should  revive 
The  customs  and  usages  of  our  grandsire. 
What  think  ye,  Sirs  ? 

LORDS. 

We  do  assent. 
A'BECKET. 

And  we — saving  the  honor  of  God, 
And  of  the  Holy  Church. 

HENRY. 

There  is  venom 

In  that  reservation.     We  will  no  more  with  thee. 
Here  is  a  special  messenger  from  the  Pope, 
In  answer  to  my  prayer.     He,  with  letters 
Apostolical,  enjoins  all  prelates,  and  more 
Especially  you  of  Canterbury,  to  accept  and 
Observe  all  the  King  of  England's  laws. 


SCENE   III.]  THOMAS    A'lJECKET.  25 

Choose  here  upon  the  instant — Compliance, 
Exile,  or  death. 

A'BECKET,  pointing  to  heaven. 
My  Liege,  my  hour  has  not  yet  come. 

Aside.}  All  armed, 

And  ready  for  the  act  ?     A  forced  compliance 
Will  not  bind  "  the  rights  of  our  order" — and  as  on  them 
Hangs  the  sole  hope  the  Anglo-Saxon  people  have 
Against  this  Norman  monarch's  fierce  assaults, 
I'll  wear  these  robes,  proof-armor  in  their  cause, 
And  with  religion  on  our  side,  the  sole  true  friend 
Of  Liberty,  I  will  assert — maintain  their  rights. 
I  will  consent — straightway  to  France,  and  thence 
To  His  High  Holiness,  appeal  from  this. 

Aloud  to  the  Court.} 

Prepare  these  Constitutions. 

HENBY. 

This  is  well. 

ALL 

Long  live  our  King  ana  Bishop. 


END  OF  ACT  I, 


26  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  n. 


ACT  H. 

SCENE   FIRST 
Franco — An  Anteroom — Gold  and  Blue. 

MATILDE  enters  with  LUCILLE. 

MATILDE. 

In  faith,  Lucille,  our  refuge  here  in  France 
Doth  seem  more  like  triumphal  entry  of  hero  fam'd 
Than  fallen  favorites'  flight — such  troops  of  friends 
Attend  us  on  our  way.     Oh,  banish,  sweet, 
From  thy  once  radiant  brow  the  sombre  hue 
Now  rests  there.     You'll  make  me  sad,  dear  girl. 
Indeed  you  will. 

LUCILLE. 
Never,  dear  cousin,  with  a  willing  heart. 

MATILDE. 

Willing  or  no,  it  matters  not,  Lucilje, 

My  heart  is  ever  mirror  unto  thine. 

So  cheer  thee,  love — thy  suitors  would  not  know 

The  face  they  once  adored.     What's  the  romance 

The  gay  Lord  Fitzurse  [Lucille  starts]  sang,  when  last 

we  feasted 

By  sweet  Avon's  side  ?     Sing  me  one  line,  'twill  bring 
To  memory  all  those  scenes  of  joy  in  which  we  revell'd, 
And,  as  gay  lark's  song  heralds  the  smile  of  dawn,  , 
Wake  from  its  dreams  thy  mournful  pensive  eye. 
These  knights  of  France  are  rich  in  all  may  win 
The  heart  of  beauty,  and  well  I  know 
Full  many  a  lance  will  break  for  thee, 
Lucille. 


rrxK  I.]  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  27 

LUCILLE. 

And  break  in  vain  ! 

MATTLDE. 

Why  so  ?     How  ?     Sighs  and  tears ! 
What  is  the  cause  of  this  ?    Of  late  I've  mark'd 
You're  much  alone,  in  shady  walks,  or  where 
The  silver  moon  sheds  her  pale  light.     What  is't  ? 
Dost  love  ?     Thou'rt  moved !     Who  is  the  knight  whose 

badge 

Thy  heart  doth  wear?     Tell  me,  sweet  girl;  I  know 
Thou  lovest ! 

LUCILLE. 

'Tis  true,  and  am  beloved. 
Nor  were  I  sad,  but  he  in  whom  I  live 
Now  mourns  by  Avon's  bank  his  absent  love. 
His  name,  Matilde,  I  long  have  long'd  to  tell, 
But  that  my  heart's  so  jealous  of  his  worth, 
I  would  not  e'en  the  air  of  heaven 
Should  know  its  precious  secret. 

MATILDE. 

Know  I  its  lord  ? 

If  so,  how  sweet  we  shall  commune  together, 
Unfolding  to  each  other  our  hearts'  treasures ; 
For  I  a  secret  have,  dearer  to  me  than  life. 
It  shall  be  thine — thine  given  me  in  turn. 

LUCILLE. 
Is't  so  ?     Fitzurse — his  name. 

MATILDE. 

The  noble,  generous  youth 

We  love  so  much  ?     He  who  cours'd  o'er  the  heath 
Of  Hounslow  to  our  support  ? 

LUCILLE. 

The  same. 


28  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  n. 

MATILDE. 

Why,  thou  hast  known  him  but  one  little  month. 

LUCILLE. 

One  little  month?     So  full  of  joys  it  was, 
That,  when  I  count  them  o'er,  all  else  of  life 
Seems  but  one  little  speck,  except,  except 
The  last  few  days,  which  are  as  centuries. 
Dost  wonder  that  I  am  sad  ? 

MATILDE. 

Nay,  dearest,  rather  wonder  I  that  floods 

Of  tears  marked  not  our  swift  departure, 

When,  all  so  unprepared,  thy  heai't  was  rooted 

From  the  soil  it  loved,  to  pine  away  afar. 

But  cheer  thee  now,  thou  shalt  not  miss  him  long; 

He  shall  be  summoned  to  attend  our  train. 

LUCILLE. 

Thanks,  thanks,  my  dear  Matilde ;  but  he,  you  know, 
Doth  wait  upon  the  King. 

MATILDE. 

Nay,  nay,  you  say  the  Queen  of  Beauty 
Rules  his  heart.     She  owns  not  a  divided  service. 
If  Fitzurse  loves  thee,  what  is  Henry's  will 
Weighed  against  Love's  commands  ?     All  things 
Oppose  its  ardent  calls,  are  but  as  rushes  in  its  path. 
He'll  straightway  come  to  France. 

LUCILLE. 

Then  wilt  thou  see  my  face  decked,  like  the  morn 
Of  May,  in  the  fair  flowers  thou  so  lovest,  Matilde  ; 
My  heart  will  be  as  blithe  as  linnet's, 
And  the  whole  livelong  day  thou'lt  hear  my  song ; 
My  steps  the  gentle  fawn's  shall  all  outvie ; 
And  in  my  smile,  mirrored,  shall  be  thine  own. 


SCENE    IT.]  THOMAS    A?BECKET.  29 

The  sweetest  ever  seen  by  man, 

In  their  richest  beauty.     Thy  lover  is — 

MATILDE. 

The  Lord  of  Blois.     He  whose  wit  is  soul 

Of  merry  meetings,  and  from  whose  sage  discourse 

Wisdom  itself  might  learn. 

But  soon  they'll  come — 
Our  aged  uncle  and  my  own  true  knight.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  SECOND. 
Stone- Vaulted  Hall. 

A'BECKET. 

This  then  is  my  reward  for  years  of  toil ! 
Oh !  thou  poor  King,  semblance  of  majesty ! 
To  use  armed  force  against  a  cowled  monk! 
My  pity  doth  outweigh  my  hate  for  thee. 
How  soft  the  air  of  France !     The  breeze  that  did  accord 
With  words  of  hate,  with  voice  of  love  doth  harmonize. 
Bright  omen  this — herald  of  joys  to  come ; 
Her  King  must  smile,  for  many  is  the  favor 
I  have  rendered  him ;  nor  will  brave  Philip  frown, 
For  him  I  have  served  in  diverse  manners. 
But  what  of  that  ?     Mankind  of  woman  born 
Never  knew  gratitude,  since  the  first  mother 
Of  us  all  rebelled  and  ate  forbidden  fruit, 
Though  Eden  teemed  with  all  most  fair  and  good. 
No,  no,  'tis  not  to  this  I'll  look;  jealous  they  grow 
Of  England's  King,  and  I  will  nurse  this  plant 
Till  it  o'ershadows  every  other  thought. 
Rome's  Pontiff,  too,  doth  feel  but  little  love 
For  him  who  so  invades  his  rights. 


30  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  IT. 

Enter  JOHN  OF  SALISBURY. 

Who  comes  ? 

SALISBURY. 

Your  pardon,  Father,  if  that  I  intrude. 

A'BECKET. 

Welcome,  my  son ;  when  to  our  friends  at  home 
You  write,  use  Saxon  names,  lest  that  our  letters 
Intercepted,  disguise  be  needful  for  their  safety. 

SALISBURY. 

I  shall,  my  Lord ;  but  now  a  knight  of  Flanders 
Attends  your  leisure.     He  comes  intrusted 
With  kind  messages. 

A'BECKET. 

Is't  so  ?     Give  him  a  hearty  welcome, 
And,  when  refreshed,  escort  him  to  my  room. 

SALISBURY. 

France,  too,  doth  join  in  her  regards.     My  Lord  of  Blois 
Now  greets  her  messengers. 

A'BECKET. 

France  too !     Methinks  the  sun  does  shine 
To-day !     Go  you  with  haste  and  give  them  welcome. 

[Exit  SALISBURY. 

Flanders  and  France !  one  more  and  all  Fate's  frowns 
Are  flown ;  thus  she,  who  seemed  a  very  shrew 
To  me,  angelic  maid  will  be.     Ere  they  arrive 
I'll  summon  my  Lucille,  for  suffering  beauty 
More  doth  move  the  heart  than  ever  did 
The  care-marked  face  of  age.     Albert !  ho !   Albert ! 

Enter  ALBERT.] 

Bid  my  lady  nieces  attend  me  here, 
As  messengers  from  France  and  Flanders 
Have  arrived,  and  I  would  they  should  welcome 
Them.  [Exit  ALBERT. 


SCENE   II.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  31 

Farewell,  pale  care !  welcome,  rose-cheeked  joy ! 
Once  more,  as  in  my  boyhood's  hour,  my  heart 
Doth  gayly  beat. 

Louis  of  France,  my  heartfelt  thanks 
To  you ;  and  Philip  of  Flanders,  success 
Attend  you  ever — this  hour  shall  Henry  rue. 

Enter  MATILDE,  LUCILLE,  and  PETER  OP  BLOIS. 

MATILDE. 

How  fares  my  uncle? 

A'BECKET. 

Well,  dearest  child ;  and  thou,  the  same  ? 
But  this  were  needless,  for  thy  smile  assents 
In  terms  more  speaking  than  thy  tongue  could  lisp. 
My  fair  Lucille  !     Thou  art  not  well,  my  child — 
But  soon  the  air  of  France  will  call  its  wonted  color 
To  thy  cheek. 

Do  those  Lords  attend? 

BLOIS. 
They  do. 

A'BECKET. 

Say  I  await  them  here. 

\Exit  BLOIS. 

My  daughters  dear,  season  your  welcome 
As  best  becomes  ye.     I'd  take  by  storm 
These  noble  hearts,  for  first  impressions 
Are  like  first  bounds  of  steeds,  that  start 
Upon  a  race,  which,  feebly  made,  compel 
Much  after  toil,  else  they  ne'er  reach  the  goal. 
They  come. 
BLOIS  ushers  in  LORDS  OF  FRANCE  AND  FLANDERS. 

BLOIS. 

From  Flanders  and  from  France,  my  Lord, 
These  gallant  knights  bring  messages  of  love. 


32  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  u. 

A'BECKET. 
Welcome,  welcome,  gentlemen. 

Sir  Guy  de  Lusignan ! 
Nobles  of  France,  he  is  well  known  to  you, 
For  Fame  did  with  one  breath  proclaim  you  all 
Her  own. 

To  LUSIGNAN.] 

My  youth's  fond  playfellow ! 
Accept  my  welcome,  and  my  thanks — thanks 
From  a  heart  o'erflowing — for  this  remembrance 
Of  thy  sunshine's  friend. 

SIR  GUT. 

Friends  in  misfortune 

Are  the  only  friends  the  great  man  e'er  should  boast. 
There  ever  are  a  thousand  motes  live  in  his  sunbeams, 
But  when  shadows  fall,  they  darkling  fade  away. 
Most  noble  Primate,  our  service  unto  you, 
And  our  King's  welcome. 

A'BECKET. 

Thanks,  my  Lord,  thanks  to  him 
And  you.     My  niece  Lucille ;  Matilde,  her  friend 
And  cousin. 

LORD  OF  FRANCE. 

Ever  at  your  service,  Ladies  fair. 

Aside.] 
How  passing  beautiful ! 

Aloud.]  As  large  as  is 

The  welcome  of  our  hearts,  which  knows  no  bounds, 
So  would  our  King  and  we,  that  you  should  find 
Our  fortunes  and  our  favors.     Our  Liege, 
To  Henry's  embassy's  complaint  of  violation 
Of  the  Treaty  of  Montmerail,  replied, 
"  Go,  tell  your  King,  that  if  he  holds  unto  the  customs 


SCENE   II.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  33 

Of  his  grandsire,  I  well  may  hold  to  right 
Hereditary,  of  succoring  the  exiled  of  all  climes." 

A'BECKET. 

Indeed !  indeed !     'Twas  nobly  said.     Were  I  to  live 
Twice  man's  allotted  time,  I  should  not  have 
E'en  hours  enough  wherein  to  thank  his  gracious  Majesty 
For  such  unbounded  kindness  shown  me. 

The  knights  and  ladies  retire  to  the  back  of  the  stage  and 
FITZUESE  enters. 

A'BECKET. 
What !  thou,  my  Lord  Fitzurse  ? 

Aside.}  I  love  this  youth ! 

And  yet,  alas  !   why  so  ?     His  mother ! 

No !  no !  'tis  past,  'tis  past. 
Aloud.}     Welcome,  my  son. 

FITZUESE,  kneeling. 

How  fare  you,  reverend  Father  ? 
Thy  niece  and  cousin,  all  well,  when  so  much  evil 
Is  abroad  ? 

A'BECKET. 

All  well,  my  son — and  you  ?     Oh !  thine 
Is,  indeed,  true  love ! 

FITZUESE,  aside. 
Ha !  knows  he  that  ?     Oh,  would  it  were ! 

A'BECKET. 

When  in  my  power,  you  refused  high  rank, 
Thus,  in  my  poverty,  to  join  my  train. 

FITZUESE. 

I  wanted  but  thy  love.     Thy  offices, 
Many,  more  able,  needed.     I  but  made  room 
For  one  of  the  hungry  crowd,  that  he  might  gorge 
Himself  with  power,  that  dish  which  all  who  eat, 
2* 


3-i  THOMAS  A'BECKKT.  [ACT  n. 

Lest  they  are  favor'd  with  its  choicest  parts, 
Soon  sickened,  fall  its  prey. 

Henry  on  wrong  heaps  wrong : 
Four  hundred  of  thy  truest  friends  are  banished 
From  his  realm,  and  Peter  pence  is  stopped. 

A'BECKET. 

May  Heaven  pardon  him  as  I  do  now ! 
How  greatness  brings  sad  havoc  in  its  fall 
On  all  who  prop  it  up. 

FTTZURSE. 

Not  this  alone ; 

He  hath  sequestered  the  revenues  of  Canterbury, 
And  even  thy  domestics  banished. 

A'BECKET. 

Revenged  himself  upon  the  innocent ! 
Oh,  grimed  heart !     More  fiendish  than  was  Nero 
In  his  rage !     To  think  that  hie  I've  served  so  long, 
From  tender  youth  to  age,  should  thus  repay  me. 
Oh,  wretched  man  and  yet  more  wretched  King ! 
My  servants,  say'st  thou?  In  what  have  they  wronged  him, 
Save  in  the  service  they  have  rendered  me  ? 
But  he  rewards  the  faithful  with  ingratitude. 
I  will  to  England  hasten,  and  surrender  up 
My  life  ('tis  all  I've  left)  to  him. 

FITZTJESE. 

Nay,  nay,  my  Lord ! 
That  were  both  rash  and  vain. 
A'BECKET. 

My  friends !  my  friends  ! 
Think,  think  of  them !     Are  they  to  suffer 
For  wrongs  done  by  me  ?     Justice  hath  fled  his  realm, 
And  devils  rule  his  heart.     Had  I  remained 
In  England,  this  had  not  been. 


SCENE   II.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  ,  35 

Oh,  curse  of  greatness ! 

But  thus  the  branches  die,  when  falls  the  oak ! 
Had  I  the  voice  of  Rome,  I'd  shake  the  realm 
Until  it  tottered  on  the  verge  of  ruin, 
And  his  proud  sceptred  head  lay  in  my  courser's  way. 
Peace,  peace,  my  heart,  but  grow  not  instant  old 
With  this  assault  of  Fortune  !     Bear  up,  bear  all ; 
Still  hast  thou  manhood's  vigor,  with  the  wisdom 
Born  of  sixty  wintry  years. 

Attend  me  here,  my  son. 

You  who  have  flown  to  aid  when  fortune  frowns, 
Shall  be  the  first  on  whom  her  favor'll  light. 
You'll  find  some  friends  in  yonder  room. 
Farewell,  and  when  you're  weary  of  life's  trifles, 
Come  to  my  closet ;  there  you'll  find  its  cares, 
Spread  with  no  niggard  hand. 

FITZUKSE. 

Bear  up,  my  Lord,  bear  up ;  this  unto  Henry 
Were  the  happiest  hour  he  ever  yet  hath  lived, 
Could  he  but  see  your  grief. 

A'BECKET. 

My  grief!  grief  and  A'Becket 
Are  as  far  apart,  as  are  the  sun 
And  his  antipodes ! 

This  is  not  grief 

But  rage,  cooled  in  the  air  of  practised  self-control. 
Oh,  could  you  look  into  my  heart's  curtained  chambers, 
You  would  witness  scenes  would  daunt  your  very  soul ! 
A  citadel  stormed  outwardly  by  foes, 
The  hosts  within,  maddened  by  suifering, 
Turned  upon  themselves. 

rrrzuBSE. 

Oh,  Father !  give  not  way. 


36  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  n. 

A'BECKET. 

Give  not  way !     I  know  my  part ;  forbearance 
For  a  season  wins  control ;  when  once  I  hold 
The  reins,  Henry  of  England,  beware  my  rule ; 
The  jewelled  sceptre  shall  be  all  thou'lt  wear 
Of  royalty ;  that  will  I  leave  you,  that  my  revenge 
May  the  more  bitter  be,  reminding  you,  poor  King, 
Of  what  you  once  had  been,  and  might  yet  be. 

FITZUESE,  aside. 
This  to  the  King,  you'd  never  hold  those  reins. 

A'BECKET. 

I,  I  had  rather  be  your  crawling  slave, 
Toil  at  the  galleys  from  the  first  breath  of  morn 
Till  day  hath  sunk  to  slumbers,  than  live  but  king 
In  name,  held  in  such  light  esteem,  the  very  air 
Would  refuse  to  bear  my  words  beyond  the  walls 
That  heard  them.     Down  Fate's  long  vista  I  have  looked 
And  seen  what  I  have  spoken. 

Mark  me,  my  boy  : 
My  mother  gave  me  this. 

She  was  the  daughter 
Of  a  Saracenic  chief.     My  father 
Warred  with  hers.     After  a  conflict  fierce, 
Overcome  by  him  and  prisoner  taken, 
Long  lay  he  ill,  tended  but  by  my  mother, 
Then  a  maid  of  beauty,  spotless  as  her  virtue. 
Ministering  to  all  his  wants,  foreseen 
Long  ere  conceived — she  learnt  to  love  him, 
And  he  loved  her — for  what  will  sooner  melt 
The  heart  of  man  than  beauty,  kneeling  by  the  couch 
Where  pain  has  laid  his  stricken  frame. 
After  some  months,  the  tears  that  nursed  those  hours 
Of  grief,  were  changed  to  smiles  should  gladden 


SCKNK   II.]  THOMAS    A?BECKET.  37 

All  life's  days ;  and  theirs  were  in  their  spring. 
One  great  and  brave,  the  other  fond  and  fair. 
Ransomed,  he  asked  her  hand ;  her  father  frowned ; 
But  'twas  in  vain — their  troth  was  plighted. 
They  swore  to  wed.     He  left  for  England. 
Scarce  had  he  reached  her  shores,  when  at  his  feet 
Knelt  a  fair  youth,    "  London"    and   "  Gilbert"   on   his 

tongue 

('Twas  all  the  English  that  he  knew),  admittance 
Craving  to  his  service.     Knowing  'twas  her, 
His  heart  alone  adored,  for  love  is  ne'er  deceived 
However  disguised  the  form — he  raised  her — 
Clasped  her  to  his  breast — she  was  his  own. 

s(c  s£  ijc  :Jc  %  4* 

Within  a  little  chapel  by  the  sea-shore  stands, 

Mantled  in  ivy,  veiled  by  rarest  flowers 

From  the  world's  gaze  profane,  they  gave  their  hands — 

No  hearts  had  they  to  give.     Blest  in  each  other, 

Long  in  love  they  lived ;  and  when  he  died, 

The  blow  which  felled  the  oak  struck  to  the  dust 

The  flower.     There,  by  sweet  Avon's  side,  where  stands 

A  weeping  willow,  lie  interred  all 

That  was  left  to  earth — their  spirits  dwell  in  Heaven. 

Oh  ye  who  watched  my  infancy, 
Upon  my  age  look  down  in  love :  mail  me 
In  virtue,  that  the  shafts  of  vice  may  pass 
Me  blunt  and  harmless.     Grant  that  my  arm  may  wield 
Her  truncheon,  while  her  banner  floats  high  o'er 
My  victorious  brow. 

But  I  detain  you,  Sir. 
Go  to  my  anteroom — there  may  my  niece 
Arid  cousin  both  be  found. 

I  will  with  you.  [JZxeunt. 


38  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  n. 


SCENE   THIRD. 
An  Anteroom  in  Palace. 

MATILDE,  LUCILLE;  KNIGHTS  OF  FRANCE  and  FLAN  DEES 
advancing. 

FRANCE. 

Ladies  fair,  we  trust  that  us  and  ours  you  use 

As  best  promotes  your  pleasures.     Many's  the  charm 

Of  France — all  yours,  if  you'll  but  ask  it. 

MATILDE. 

Thanks,  heartfelt  thanks,  most  noble  Lords ;  so  rich, 

So  bounteous  is  your  clime,  that,  were  I  not 

Of  England,  I  fain  would  be  of  France. 

The  very  air  of  heaven  is  generous  here ; 

The  flowers,  the  fruits,  so  lavish  all  their  sweets, 

Ambrosial  is  each  breath. 

FRANCE. 

Nay,  nay,  unworthy  she  of  praise 
So  sweet ;  believe  me,  'tis  that  she  borrows 
From  thy  charms,  that  all's  so  passing  fair. 

MATILDE. 

The  rose  could  scarce  desert  us  here  in  France, 
So  finished  are  you  in  your  speech,  my  Lord. 

FRANCE. 

In  the  moon's  ray  alone,  the  dew-drop  glistens 
Longest.     May  we  for  many  a  day  boast 
The  bright  light  thy  sweet  smiles  give  our  land. 
Who  may  this  be  approaches  ?    A  gallant  gentleman  1 

MATILDE. 

A  noble  Lord,  the  pride  of  all  who  know  him. 


SCENE  III.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  39 

FITZURSE  enters. 

FITZURSE. 

To  MATILDE.]         Fair  lady,  by  your  leave. 

[.Kisses  her  hand. 
Your  servant,  gentlemen. 

MATILDE. 

My  Lord  Fitzurse,  you're  welcome. 

Presenting  LUCILLE.]  My  lovely  cousin ! 

FITZURSE  to  her. 
My  Morning  Star !  [Kisses  her  hand. 

Oh,  what  a  golden  day 
Herein  is  promised  me ! 

LUCILLE. 

Fitzurse,  my  noble  Lord ! 
The  others  retire.]  \Thvy  walk  apart. 

FITZURSE. 

My  fair  Lucille — Sun  of  my  life,  what,  what 
Hath  ravaged  my  rich  garden  thus — its  flowers 
All  faded — all  its  pure  springs  dried  up — where 
Are  the  roses  rich,  bloomed  richest  on  thy  cheek  ? 
The  lilies  fair  which  made  thy  neck  their  bed  ? 
Their  breath  alone  remains.     And  those  bright  orbs 
Which  once  did  put  the  stars  to  shame,  now  seem 
But  wells  of  grief.     Cheer  up,  cheer  up,  sweet  friend ; 
Call  from  thy  soul  the  light  once  wont  to  glisten 
In  thy  tearless  eye.     You'll  make  me  sad,  dear  girl, 
In  faith  you  will.     Ah !  now  you  smile,  and  now  I  know 
My  own  Lucille.     What  is't  hath  changed  you  thus  ? 

LUCILLE. 

Thy  absence,  my  dear  Lord,  and  loving  doubts 
Lest  we  no  moi'e   should  meet.     Ah !  that  alone 
Were  grief  enough  to  make  stones  weep  ;  but  as  the  sun 
Their  sweet  distilments  draws  from  flowery  meads, 


40  THOMAS  A'BKCKET.  [ACT  n. 

So  shall  thy  presence  from  my  verdant  heart 
Reap  harvest  of  such  joys,  thy  eye  will  love 
To  linger  on  the  scene,  on  which  it  once  so  fondly  gazed. 

FITZURSE. 

True,  Love,  though  banished  from  our  cherished  home, 
We'll  deck  in  joy  our  thoughts — and  smiles  the  garb 
Shall  be,  the  face  shall  wear — all  lands  the  same  to  love. 

LUCILLE. 
In  truth  we  will,  dear  Lord — but  pray,  how  came  you  here  ? 

FITZURSE. 

My  heart  had  learnt  to  beat  most  healthful  time 
To  the  soft  music  of  Lucille's  sweet  voice. 
That  missed — all  others  sounded  "  harsh  and  out  of  tune." 
So  I  came  here  to  France. 

LUCILLE. 

Then  Henry  hath  not  frowned 
On  you — no,  no,  that  could  not  be. 

FITZURRE. 

Nor  is ; 

But  I  have  frowned  on  him — spurned  the  base  rule 
That  tramples  thus  on  worth ;  genius  to  slander's  shafts 
Hath  fallen  prey,  and  wisdom  fled  his  realm. 
The  ides  of  March  brought  not  more  ills  upon  the  sons 
Of  Rome,  than  this  on  England  hath. 

LUCILLE. 

Oh,  say  not  so,  for  she  our  country  is — 
But  see,  these  knights  of  Flanders  and  of  France 
Have  ta'en  their  leave — they  are  most  courtly  lords ; 
To  them  I'm  much  beholden.  ' 

FITZURSE. 

Thence,  much  am  I ; 

Come,  dearest  love,  and  we'll  amid  this  castle's  varied 

scenes, 
While  away  a  few  short  hours.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.]  THOMAS    A'lJKCKKT.  41 


SCBNB  FOURTH. 
Court  at  Sens — A  Grand  Hall. 

Enter  HENRY  and  DE  BROC. 

HENRY. 

I  have  advices  tell  me  the  Primate  threatens  me. 
He  threaten  me !     Why,  what  a  slave  am  I ! 
A  monkish  cowl  more  terror  strikes  into  my  heart 
Than  twice  ten  thousand  men,  all  mailed  in  steel ! 
Still,  should  he  issue  interdict,  farewell 
To  all  my  power — this  will  suspend  all  forms 
Religious — marriage,  baptism,  burial — No  priest 
Can  then  officiate  in  public  or  in  private. 
'Twill  break  the  bonds  of  loyalty.     I'll  stay  his  course. 
'  De  Broc !  my  Lord  De  Broc !     Give  instant  orders 
That  all  England's  ports  be  watched,  with  this  command, 
That  any  one,  or  man  or  child,  matron  or  maid, 
Who  shall  bear  over,  promulgate,  or  obey, 
Letters  of  Interdict,  receiveth  instant  death, — 
No  clergy's  benefit  allowed.     Announce 
That  if  the  Cistercian  Order,  now  at  Pontigny, 
Continue  to  protect  this  traitor,  their  Order 
Be  expelled  from  my  domains.  \Exit  DE  BROC. 

Enter  FITZURSE.]  Ha !  my  Fitzurse  ! 

FITZURSE,  kneeling. 
My  Liege. 

HENRY,  sarcastically. 

How  fares  our  loving  Primate  ? 

FITZUESE. 

Well,  my  Liege — France,  Flanders,  and  the  Pope  outvie 

each  other 
In  favors  shown  him. 


42  THOMAS  A'BKOKET.  [ACT  n. 

HENRY. 

Is't  so,  in  fact  ? 

FITZURSE. 

In  fact,  my  Liege. 

HENRY. 

What  can  we  do  ? 

FITZURSE. 

Make  peace  with  him. 

HENRY. 

Make  peace,  but  how  ?     Must  I  cringe  to  him  ? 

FITZURSE. 

No,  my  Liege,  use  France.     He  will  a  mediator  be. 
There  must  be  peace,  else  your  whole  realm's  disjoined. 
Better  'twere  made  in  a  friendly  way,  than  you  be  forced 
To  it. 

HENRY. 

True,  true  ;  we  will  consult  with  France 
As  to  the  better  mode.     A'Becket  knows  not 
You  are  in  my  service  ? 

FITZTJRSE. 

No,  deems  me  fallen  from  favor. 

HENRY. 

Let  it  be  so,  but  heed  him  well.     Attend  me  !      [Exeunt. 


SCENE  FIFTH. 

"Gothic." 

A'BECKET  and  BLOIS. 

BLOIS. 

Your  orders  are  fulfilled,  my  Lord — 
Yet  may  not  Henry  injure  you  still  more  ? 


SCENE  V.]  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  43 

A'BECKET. 

He  injure  me  ?     Each  wrong  he  does  me  falls 
As  sand,  a  handful  thrown  aloft,  covering  whole  acres 
With  its  particles.     Such  my  revenge  shall  be — 
A  myriad  ills  for  every  wrong  he  does  my  country 
And  my  friends. 

At  Sens,  henceforth,  I'll  dwell  in  peace, 
Out  of  the  range  of  his  hostility, 
While  he'll  live  troubled  with  the  fear  of  me. 
His  Holiness  hath  bidden  me,  "  in  this  my  poverty," 
To  be  "  Consoler  of  the  poor."    To  Henry,  begging, 
He  refused  a  conference,  and  me  appoints 
His  Legate  unto  England.    Most  generous  act ! 
Said  I  not  that  all  worked  well  ?     Trust,  trust  to  years ; 
We  better  read  the  hearts  of  men  than  ye 
*  Of  tender  youth. 

BLOIS. 

'Tis  true,  my  Lord. 
A'BECKET.     , 

One  Alexander,  and  but  one,  was  to  the  old  world  known ; 
So  shall  Rome's  sacred  'scutcheon  his  name  bear, 
Greatest  of  all  her  Pontiffs.     Such  men  are  offspring 
Of  a  thousand  years — none,  none  like  him 
Shall  the  next  ten  centuries  see.     Ah !  here 
Albert  comes.     More  news  ?    Methinks  this  day 
Is  big  with  it. 

Enter  ALBERT.]  [A'BECKET,  taking  letter,  reads. 

What  is  this  ?    What  is  this  ? 
Henry  inhibits  all  appeals,  or  unto  the  Pope 
Or  me ;  declares  it  treason  to  introduce 
Our  interdicts  into  his  kingdom,  and  obliges  all 
Who  in  England  dwell,  to  swear  observance 
Of  these  orders,  on  pain  of  most  dread  sufferings. 
This,  this  is  monstrous ;  it  were  as  well  that  water 


44  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  n. 

Were  forbidden !     I'll  fill  the  world  with  it ! 

This  is  the  cause  of  God !     Go  you,  and  unto  Louis 

Write  this,  also  to  Philip  of  Flanders : 

"  That  I  suspend  the  spiritual  thunder 

Over  Henry's  head,  to  fall,  less  timely  repentance  comes." 

This  will  him  deprive  of  all  his  continental  territories, 

And  endanger  his  power  in  England. 

Write  this,  and  messengers  dispatch  to  Rome 

With  news  of  what  I  do. 

I'll  be  myself  once  more. 

I'll  nothing  with  this  King !     He  yet  shall  sue 
To  me !     All  mediations  shall  but  faster  forge 
The  bars  keep  Henry  from  my  love. 
Enter  JOHN  OF  SALISBURY.] 

Ha !  my  friend 
Of  Salisbury,  what  news  hast  thou  ? 

JOHN    OF    SALISBURY. 

John  of  Oxford 

Hath  for  himself  obtained  absolution, 
And  resigned  his  Deanery  to  the  Pope, 
But,  by  his  appointment,  straightway  received  it  back. 

A'BECKET. 

Indeed !     This  looks  not  well  for  us !     What  arts 
Were  used  to  influence  His  Holiness  ? 
What  more  ? 

SALISBURY. 

A  Bull  from  the  Pope,  my  Lord,  the  decree 
Annulling,  did  confiscate  your  goods, 
But  with  his  prohibition  'gainst  excommunicating 
Any  person  in  England,  or  interdicting  that  realm. 
While  he  his  wish  doth  indicate,  exhorting  you 
To  moderation  and  humility. 


FNE  I.]  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  4:5 

A'BECKET. 

To  moderation 

And  humility  ?     I'll  see  my  friend  of  France — 
Louis  will  ne'er  desert  me. 

Whence  comes  this  change  ? 
To  moderation  and  humility ! 
And  what  is  this  but  moderation 
And  humility  ?     These  cloistered  courts 
After  my  princely  halls,  and  but  two  friends 
For  all  my  regal  train — 
I  would  for  myself  be  humble,  very  humble, 
Humble  as  the  dust. 

My  exaltation  were  my  sure  reward, 
But  my  poor  friends — my  country ! 

END  OF  ACT  II. 


ACT  in. 

SCENE   FIRST. 
"  Stone" — A'Becket'a  apartment  in  Monastery  at  St.  Colomba. 

Enter  LORDS  DE  BROC  and  DE  TRACY. 

DE  TRACY. 

Is  this  the  love  France  bears  to  England, 
Such  princely  entertainment  to  her  foes  ? 

DE  BROC. 

'Twas  ever  thus,  his  seeming  modesty 
Was  but  the  semblance  of  austerity. 


46  THOMAS   A'BECKET.  [ACT  in. 

A  beggar's  robe  upon  a  princely  couch 
Proved  well  this  upstart's  vanity. 

DE  TRACY. 

Peace,  peace !     He  comes 

DE  BKOC. 

Well !  let  him,  'tis  but  to  blind 
The  vulgar  he's  thus  clothed,  they  never  see 
Aught  but  the  ante-room,  and  that's  the  same, 
A  picture  of  sad  poverty.     He  knoweth  well 
How  best  to  catch  the  vulgar  crowd.     My  Lord, 
There's  danger  here  to  us  and  to  our  rights  ! 

DE  TEACY. 

Once  on  the  shore  of  England,  'twill  go  hard 
But  we  shall  tame  his  spirit ;  escape 
Were  not  so  easy,  had  we  guarded  well. 

DE  BROC. 
We'll  have  no  peace  while  Becket  lives  to  plot. 

DE  TRACY. 

True,  true !     There's  something  in  the  air  of  France ! 
How  proud  grows  Lord  Fitzurse ! 

DE  BROC. 

Fair  and  false !  false  and  fair  ! 

He  counts  upon  A'Becket's  niece's  wide  domains. 

I  sent  some  flowers  to  his  lady  love, 

Of  fragrance  rich  and  rare,  with  lines  composed 

By  our  most  sweet  queen,  in  the  envelope 

Came  from  Lord  Fitzurse — (she  knew  the  hand, 

For  he's  a  dainty  scholar)  together — 

With  his  last  words  to  us, — 

Sarcastically.']      His  friends  should  advance  his  suit. 
Lo  !  here  the  Archbishop  comes. 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  4:7 

Enter  A'BECKET. 

DE  BBOC. 

Our  gracious  Lord  Archbishop  ! 

A'BECKET,  aside. 
Our  Lord  Archbishop ! — no  thanks  to  you  I'm  so. 

AloudJ] 
What  would  ye,  Sirs,  with  me  ? 

DE  BEOC.         . 

A  friendly  conference. 

A'BECKET. 

I'll  send  my  kinsman  to  you,  Sirs :  I  hold 
No  private  conference — there's  a  wide  gulf 
Between  the  Saxon  Primate  and  the  Norman  lords. 

DE  TRACY. 

You  do  mistake  us  much,  my  Lord.    We  come  as  friends. 

.   A'BECKET. 

So  came  the  serpent,  who  beguiled  poor  Eve, 
Promising  knowledge,  which  but  proved  her  ruin. 

DE  BEOC. 
Not  so,  my  Lord.     Peruse  this  letter,  'tis  from  England's 

King. 
Aside  to  DE  TRACT.] 

Mark  him,  my  friend ! 
A'BECKET  reads — then  says — 
Indeed,  'tis  well — 'tis  well. 
Accept  my  welcome,  most  noble  Lords, 
And  pardon  an  old  man's  petulance, 
In  that  I  did  receive  you,  formally — 
Sit  ye,  and  we'll  discuss  this  business. 
Ho !  Albert.  {Enter  ALBERT. 

Bid  them  prepare  repasts  for  fifty  knights, — 
Friends  have  arrived  from  France.,  [Exit  ALBERT. 

How  does  his  gracious  majesty  ? 


48  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  in. 

DE  TRACY. 

Well  in  all  things  save  one — he  bade  us  say, 
And  that,  the  loss  of  your  society. 
With  this,  that  with  the  past  its  ills  were  flown, 
Therefore,  in  oblivion  buried,  let  all 
Vexed  questions  be,  and  begs  your  quick  return. 
A'BECKET. 

Bury  the  past,  my  Lords ! 
Do  we  forget  the  Avalanche  has  hurled 
Our  stately  mansions  to  the  dust,  and  cast 
Unto  the  winds  our  prosperous  fortunes  ? 
Henry  asks  much — besides,  here  have  I 
Plenty,  honor,  ease ;  Avhile  I  in  England, 
At  best,  should  find  but  lack  of  love,  dishonor, 
Penury. — No,  no,  my  Lords ;  not  to  use 
Harsher  phrase,  this  is  ungenerous ! 

DE  BROC. 

Nay,  nay,  my  Lord ;  you  and  your  friends  shall  be  restored 
To  all  your  livings ;  and  all  the  benefices 
That  have  been  filled  during  your  absence 
Shall  be  vacated,  until  supplied  by  you. 
He  asks  but  this,  that  you  absolve  his  ministers. 

A'BECKET. 

We  will  confer  on  this.     Albert,  attend  these  lords. 
You  must  be  quite  o'erworn  with  your  ride. 
I  thank  you  for  your  love,  shown  in  your  haste 
To  greet  me.     Doves  had  scarce  flown  faster. 

DE  TRACY. 

Our  service  to  you,  Father.  [Exeunt. 

A'BECKET. 

Falsehood  here,  falsehood  everywhere,  methinks 
The  very  air  is  filled  with  it.     I  scent  naught  else. 
Return  to  England  and  he'll  repair  the  past ! 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS    A'fiECKET.  49 

Restore  myself  and  friends  our  proud  estates — 

Can  he  restore  the  time  of  which  he  has  robbed  me  ? 

Why,  what  a  fool  he  thinks  me !     "Will  do  all  this — 

All  this,  ay  more,  so  say  these  lords.     Catch  me 

With  promises,  and  birds  with  lime,  when  on  them 

Ye  can  lay  it,  Sirs  !     There's  something  more  in  this ; 

Insult  to  injury.     I'll  none  of  it.     When  I  may  land 

On  England's  shore,  backed  by  my  thousands, 

Then  I  may  return,  but  never  on  the-  strength 

Of  Henry's  promise — which,  like  the  Upas, 

Wins  the  gazer's  eye,  but  to  the  trusting  touch 

Is  poisonous. 

And  more :  there  are  my  private  heart-seated  wrongs 

Which  stalk  around  me,  though  there's  lapse  of  years. 

'Twas  he  who  robbed  me  of  my  youth's  fond  hopes, 

Dishonoring  her  who  was  my  only  pride  ! 

No,  no,  not  so  ;  I  will  be  just  even  in  my  hate  : 

Hers  was   the  sin  to  me — not  his — he  knew  not  of  my 

love. 

Oh !  I  forget — my  heart  and  head  grow  old — 
I  forgave  him  then,  and  took  England  for  my  bride. 
Away,  ye  selfish  thoughts  !     Ye  must  be  strangers 
To  the  breast  of  greatness. 

Enter  MATILDB  and  SALISBURY. 

A'BECKET. 

My  child,  here  is  news  from  England. 
Henry   craves    our    return.       [Aside.]      I'll  sound  her 
woman's  wit. 

MATILDE. 

You  will  not  go,  dear  father. 

SALISBURY. 

Most  surely  not. 


50  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  in. 

A'BECKET. 

He  promises  to  restore  myself  and  friends 
Unto  our  former  honors. 

SALISBURY. 

His  promises,  my  Lord — 

A'BECKET. 
Are — 

SALISBURY. 
But  sportsmen's  calls  to  lure  their  prey. 

MATILDE. 

You  will  not  go  ? 

A'BECKET. 

Should  I  be  afraid,  my  child  ? 
A'Becket  ne'er  knew  fear,  for  he  is  mailed 
In  the  garb  of  faith ! 

SALISBURY. 

Father,  it  is  not  that  you  fear,  but  you  mistrust ; 
You  know  he  is  treacherous,  as  hyena  fierce, 
And,  you'd  not  venture  in  his  den. 
Prudence  is  a  manly  virtue  ! 

Go  not,  my  Lord. 
Here  are  your  truest  friends,  consult  with  them. 

Enter  FITZURSE  on  one  side,  LUCILLE  on  the  other. 

A'BECKET. 

Lucille,  my  child !  my  Lord  Fitzurse — ye  whom 
I  much  do  love — ye  whom  I  call  mine  own, 
Give  me  your  voices.     England  here  writes 
(Her  lords  have  just  arrived),  and  begs 
Our  quick  return,  promising  to  all  our  friends 
Their  former  state. 

LUCILLE. 

Father,  you'll  not  return ! 
Aside.]     Why  came  Lord  Fitzurse  here  ? 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  51 

A'BECKET. 
Do  you  counsel  thus? 

LUCILLE,  kneeling  to  him. 
Upon  my  bended  knee,  I  do  beseech  you,  Sir, 
That  letter !  [A'BECKET  gives  it  her. 

Aside.']        The  same  hand  as  that  to  Henry's  embassy. 
Love  cannot  blind  me  to  the  fact,  'tis  his, — 
Fitzurse's !— Bear  up,  my  heart !  I'U  note  him  well. 

A'BECKET. 
And  what,  Fitzurse,  say  you  ? 

SALISBURY. 
I,  would  not  trust  his  promise. 

FITZUESE. 

I,  would,  my  Lord ; 
Honor  and  safety  unto  all  he  vouches. 

LUCILLE  to  FITZUKSE. 

Would  you,  my  Lord  ? 

FITZUESE. 

I  would,  fair  lady. 

LUCILLE. 

His  promise ! 

Oh !  Father,  do  not  go,  save  hostages 
Be  left  with  France  for  your  security. 

A'BECKET. 
Well  thought,  my  child ! 

SALISBURY. 

And  deeds,  confirming  all  your  rights, 
Be  sent. 

A'BECKET. 

So  be  it.     Salisbury,  meet  me  at  hour  of  nine ; 
Lest  Henry  trifles,  we'll  safe  bind  at  once. 
Each  now,  to  their  several  pleasures. 

Exeunt  all,  except  FITZUKSE  and  LUCILLE. 


52  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  in. 

FITZURSE. 

Sweet  flower  of  Spring,  all  will  be  well  ! 
I  heard  from  Henry  by  this  embassy  : 
There  is  full  power  to  comply  with  what 
A'Becket  asks. 

LUCILLE. 

My  Lord,  you,  from  King  Henry,  advices  have  ! 
Why  spake  you  as  you  did,  when  others  raised  their 
doubts  ? 

FITZURSE. 
I  gave  my  answer  unto  all  they  asked. 

LUCILLE. 

My  Lord  !     My  Lord  !     You  gave  your  answer  ! 
A  friend  had  opened  to  his  friend  his  heart  ; 
So  he  his  thoughts  had  read.     A  follower 
Should  have  done  so.     I  would  not  trust  this  King, 
Nor  — 

FITZURSE. 

Nor  what  ? 

LUCILLE. 

No  matter  — 

FITZUESE. 

Dost  thou  reprove  ? 

LUCILLE. 

You  heard  from  Henry  ! 
How  could  you  hold  communion  with  A'Becket's  foe  ? 

FITZURSE  aside, 
Am  I  love's  slave,  that  I  am  questioned  thus  ? 


Dost  thou  reprove,  fair  maid  ? 

LUCILLE. 

As  does  your  heart, 

Does  mine  ;  but  oh,  what  grief,  if  that  it  must  do  so. 
Asidel\  To  love,  to  doubt  !    Oh,  wretched  fate  is  mine  ! 


SCENE   I.]  THOMAS    A5BECKET.  53 

FITZUESE. 

For  me,  Lucille,  these  wbrds  ? 

LUCILLE. 

For  you,  my  Lord ; 
Or  any  man,  whose  smiling  face 
Is  but  the  glittering  sheath,  covers  a  heart 
Would  stab  its  dearest  friend.  [FITZUESE  starts. 

You  met  these  lords  in  private 
Ere  they  had  seen  mine  uncle ;  a  secret  conference 
Held  with  them ;  these  facts  concealed,  when  in  good  faith 
Consulted.  [FrrzuRSE  offers  to  take  her  hand. 

Nay,  Sir,  your  hand's  unclean,  fresh  from  the  traitor's  act. 

FITZUESE. 

Lucille ! 

LUCILLE. 

Who  would  be  false  to  him,  is  false  to  me ! 

FITZUESE. 

Why  this  ?     How  know  you  that  I  conference  held  ? 

LUCILLE. 
Your  silence  to  my  charge  when  made ! 

Aside.] 

I  will  not  wound  him,  with  these  dreadful  lines — 
His  letter  to  the  King — assassins  of  my  young  heart's 

hopes. 
I've  said  enough,  unless  his  heart  is  stone. 

FITZUESE. 

'Twas  in  your  uncle's  cause,  and  thine ;  besides, 
I  saw  them  but  a  moment. 

LUCILLE. 

Would'st  thou  prevaricate  and  gloss  it  o'er  to  me, 
My  Lord  ? — you  met  them,  Sir,  my  uncle's  foes, 
In  private,  'tis  enough — false  unto  him, 
You'd  be  unfair  to  me.     "  Candor"  is  the  motto 


54:  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  in. 

Blazoned  on  true  love's  shield !     Farewell ! 
I  am  much  grieved  to  find  you  lack  this  virtue. 
Who  would  have  thought  you  thus  could  mar 
The  noblest  gifts  of  nature  ? 

Farewell,  farewell ! 
My  love  is  changed  to  pity.     Leave  me,  Sir ! 

FITZURSE. 
Lady,  you  will  repent  you  of  this  hour. 

Farewell !     [  Going. 

LUCILLE. 

My  Lord,  I  do  repent  me  of  this  hour, 
And  many  hours  past !     May  Heaven  pardon  you, 
As  I  do  now ! 

FITZTJKSE. 

Farewell,  fair  Lady,  since  it  must  be  so. 
You  will  relent. 

LUCILLE. 
Never!  never! 

FITZURSE. 

Farewell !  [Exits. 

LUCILLE. 

Are  there  in  store  for  me  more  bolts  like  this  ? 
If  so,  would  Heaven  they'd  fall  at  once 
And  crush  me. 

A'BECKET  enters. 

My  child,  what  moves  you  thus  ? 
Where  is  Fitzurse  ? 

LUCILLE. 

Fitzurse !  Fitzurse  !     He's  false  to  you,  to  me, 
To  the  whole  world ;  for  all  who  knew  him 
Held  him  as  candor's  child.     Trust  him  not, 
Father,  trust  him  not !  [  Giving  a  letter. 

Thy  letter  and  these  lines, 
'Twas  the  same  hand  penned  both. 


SCENE   I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  55 

A'BECKET  reads. 

Ha— 

"  A'Becket's  friend,  who  fair  Lucille  doth  woo, 
Is  Henry's  friend,  A'Becket's  direst  foe. 
Her  bridal  rites  will  prove  A'Becket's  grave, 
When  fair  Lucille  becomes,  Lord  Fitzurse's  slave." 
Where  found  you  this  ?     ['Aside.]    Tis  from  Queen  Elea 
nor ! 

LUCILLE,  taking  flowers  from  her  bosom. 

These  flowers  bore  the  thorn. 
I  cannot  nurse  you  longer.  [Drops  them  gently. 

A'BECKET. 

Poison  oft  lurks  beneath  earth's  fairest  fruits ! 
What  more  knowest  thou  ? 

LUCILLE. 

He  saw  these  lords  this  morn ; 
Held  private  conference,  ere  you  met  them,  Sir. 

A'BECKET. 

Indeed,  was't  so  ?  nor  spake  when  I  did  question  him  ? 
How  false !    How  foul !    Cheer  thee,  my  child,  all  sorrows 
Have  their  balm !     Go,  seek  Matilde,  I'll  summon 
Salisbury.  [Exit  LUCILLE. 

I  cannot  believe,  without  the  weightiest  proofs, 
That  he  is  false  to  me. 

Yet  it  is  his  heritage. 

Him  whom  I  guarded,  though  unbeknown, 
From  tenderest  infancy  to  full-grown  pride. 
I  saw  the  germs  of  greatness  in  the  boy, 
And  trusted  they  would  bloom  in  manhood. 
Thus  ever  fail  our  fondest  hopes. 

My  poor,  poor  child ! 

Why  falls  this  blow  on  her  ?     Her,  whom  I  thought 
Secure  as  cloistered  nun  from  love-born  griefs. 


6  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  m. 

SALISBURY  enters  unseen  by  A'BECKET. 
How  vain  is  man's  needfulness !     Poor  girl !  poor  girl ! 
But  thus  it  is  with  all — how  fitful  is  life ! 
To-day,  in  manly  pride,  as  dares  the  bark 
The  ocean's  changefulness,  the  gallant  youth  struts, 
Conscious  of  his  power;  but  soon,  as  sinks 
Beneath  that  ocean's  frowns  the  groaning  hulk, 
His  crest  is  lowered  by  the  storm  which  strikes, 
Sooner  or  later,  all  who  hope  to  soar 
High  o'er  the  world's  wild  waves. 

Youth  is  hope's  season, 

Though  the  seed  that's  sown,  oft  yields  but  sorry  harvest. 
Life  is  a  dream,  naught  real  but  the  hour. 
Unstable  as  the  stream,  earth's  offerings, 
The  sweetest  to  the  taste  are  joys  unhoped. 
The  bitterest  sorrow  comes  when  unforeseen. 
Hard  seems  life's  yoke,  yet  easy  'tis  to  bear, 
If  mated,  but  with  faith. 

SALISBURY. 

How  wonderfully  wise !     He's  wrapt  in  thought 
On  man's  futility.     I  must  disturb  his  musing. 
Father ! 

A'BECKET. 

My  son,  what  news  ?    ' 

SALISBURY. 

Your  terms  made  known  to  Henry's  embassy, 
They,  having  well  feasted,  would  not  o'erwait 
The  night,  but  posted  back  again.  Methinks, 
My  Lord,  he'll  grant  you  any  thing,  so  urgent 
Were  their  words. 

A'BECKET. 

'Tis  well ;  but  hast  thou  heard 
What  passed  between  the  King  of  France 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS    A'sECKET.  57 

And  he  who  is  miscalled  England's? 
Thus  says  a  later  embassy,  just  arrived. 

SALISBURY. 
A  later  embassy ! 

A'BECKET. 

E'en  so.     Hear  thou  their  words — 
Attended  by  his  friends  and  counsellors, 
His  sovereignty  proudly  worn,  Henry  approached 
Unbending ;  his  salutation  formal, 
And  his  words  as  cold  as  winds  that  come 
From  Norseland.     'Twas  not  the  part  of  France 
His  breath  should  be  the  breeze  from  balmy  Southland 

blows. 

But  as  exposed,  most  hostile  things  produce 
A  genial  spark — even  from  the  meeting 
Of  their  distant  spirits,  a  flame  of  love 
Sprang  forth.     Right  royally  forgetting  and  forgiving, 
He  to  those  honors  of  which  I  was  so  unjustly  reft, 
With  many  more,  restored  me. 

We  will  to  England  soon, 
When  unto  you,  high  office  I'll  intrust. 

SALISBURY. 

'    Bright  ray  of  Peace !     May  Heaven  be  thanked  ! 

A'BECKET. 

E'en  so — and  by  its  mercies  we  are  called 
In  action  to  proclaim  unto  the  world 
Our  gratefulness.     Much  is  there  to  be  done ; 
The  lawless  nobles  must  be  curbed,  licentious 
Is  the  very  air  of  England.     Gold,  glittering  gold, 
And  an  unseemly  pride,  are  all  these  nobles 
Glory  in.     Their  vassals  are  oppressed, 
And  the  High  Church  neglected. 
3* 


58  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  in. 

It  must,  shall,  be  reformed. 
This  for  thine  ear  alone.  [Enter  LUCILLE. 

What  would  you,  child  ? 
LUCILLE. 

The  King,  our  Liege,  arrived  to-day  in  France 
This  letter  bearing,  his  lords  an  audience  crave. 

Gives  a  letter^\ 

Fearing  treachery  lurked  beneath,  I  bore  it 
Here  myself.     What  says  his  Majesty  ? 

A'BECKET,  after  reading. 
We  are  recalled  to  all  our  honors  ! 
The  King  reposes  now  some  few  miles  hence, 
His  lords  of  high  degree  attend  me  here. 
Salisbury,  go  you  and  sound  them  well, 
Note  all  their  actions,  even  their  garb  observe. 
The  leopard's  skin  is  most  in  vogue 
With  our  nobility,  and  'neath  its  beauties 
Oft  a  poniard  gleams.     I  fear  not,  but  mistrust. 
Their  purpose  known  to  you,  you'll  find  me  here. 

[Exit  SALISBURY. 

Lucille,  my  child,  pray  lay  aside  this  grief, 
Thou  mayst  have  heavier  trials  yet  in  store. 

LUCILLE. 

If  so,  I'll  bear  them — as  I  will  bear  this — 
Am  I  not  A'Becket's  niece  ?  his  child  ? 
A'BECKET. 

Well  said,  my  idol  girl — 

Yet  stay — thy  beauties  now  full  blown,  many  there  are 
In  England  who  will  strive  to  pluck  the  flower 
From  the  parent  stem — and  at  thy  age  the  heart 
Beats  not  alone  with  throbbings  born  within, 
But,  like  the  sweet  airs  heard  in  verdant  vales, 
Whispers  in  melodies  in  ten  thousand  born. 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  59 

LUCILLE. 

I've  done  with  love — an  o'ermastered  argosie — 

I've  sunk  my  young  heart's  countless  wealth 

In  the  deep  bosom  of  forgetfulness — 

Mine  uncle  dear,  hast  thou  not  watched 

O'er  infancy's  frail  flowers,  smiled  on  their  budding, 

And  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  their  full-blown 

Beauties,  tended,  with  parent  carefulness  ? 

A'BECKET. 
A  father's  love,  no  more. 

LUCILLE. 

Yes,  more ;  a  mother's  ! 
Were  you  not  both  to  me  ? 

A'BECKET. 

And  thou  to  me,  a  child. 
The  purest,  dearest  moments  granted  me 
In  a  long  life,  I  owe  to  thee,  Lucille. 
I  never  knew  a  parent's  love.     Though  I  am  risen 
To  greatness,  'twas  heart-born  grief  marshalled  me 
To  honor  ;  since  then  I  have  never  halted 
In  my  rapid  course ;  no  matter  how  opposed, 
All  things  I  made,  rungs  in  ambition's  ladder ; 
In  my  whole  course  of  life  o'erleaping 
Where  I  could  not  level  to  my  will,  and  once, 
But  once,  have  fallen — and  that  was,  as  the  flame 
On  sudden  dies,  to  shine  with  greater  brightness. 
We  will  prepare  for  England.  [LUCILLE  retires. 

Enter  SALISBURY]  What  say  these  lords  ? 

SALISBUBY. 

All  that,  to  the  ear,  is  fair. 

A'BECKET. 

But  to  the  thought 
Most  foul— I  read  your  meaning— speak,  my  friend. 


60  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  in. 

,         SALISBUEY. 

With  every  wish  for  your  success — much  joy 
That  you  to  England  will  return — smiles,  words 
Such  as  are  used  by  courtiers,  they  lauded 
Henry  to  the  skies,  for  what  he  did  perforce. 
Making  him  centre  unto  them,  his  satellites, 
No  more,  no  more ! 

A'BECKET. 

So  greatness  ever  is  attended. 
Upon  the  lion's  heels  thus  treads  the  jackall, 
And  what  he  leaves,  delights  to  feed  on. 
You  met  them  graciously !     Salisbury, 
If  they  can,  they  will  sting — we  must  draw  their  fangs. 
Wait  they  below  ? 

SALISBURY. 

They  do,  my  Lord. 
A'BECKET. 

We  will  receive  them  here. 

Exit  SALISBURY  and  enter  ALBERT. 
Albert,  I  may  have  work  for  you,  await  without ; 
Your  arms  are  ready  ?     Cordin  and  Bassett 
With  you  ?     I'll  knock,  should  you  be  needed. 
Enter  SALISBURY,    DE  TRACY,   DE  MOREVILLE,    and  SIR 
RICHARD  BRITQ. 

A'BECKET. 

Welcome,  Gentlemen! 

DE  TRACY. 

To  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
Our  service — welcome  to  the  Primacy  once  more ! 

A'BECKET. 
Thanks,  Gentlemen;  thanks! 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKKT.  61 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

The  King  commends  himself  to  you; 
He  would  that  you,  with  your  fair  nieces  both, 
Should  grace  his  court  to-night,  for  soon  he  goes 
To  Normandy. 

A'BECKET. 

Say  to  my  Liege  we  will  attend 
His  pleasure.     This  hour  heralds  days  of  joy 
To  come,  rich  in  the  service  we  may  render  him ; 
And  believe  me,  Gentlemen,  that  handmaids  meet 
My  children  fair  will  be. 

BEITO. 

Well  know  we  that,  my  Lord,  for  hearts,  ne'er  owned 
The  power  of  love  before,  unto  their  beauty 
Bend  the  suppliant  knee. 

A'BECKET. 

To  maiden  influence 

Noble  hearts  e'er  yield  a  grateful  homage  ; 
Their  beauty  shows  not  only  to  the  eye. 

BEITO. 

So  have  we  learnt,  and  happy  shall  we  be 
When  we  may  welcome  them  to  English  homes ; 
We  will  await  you  in  King  Henry's  palace. 

A'BECKET. 

Thanks,  my  Lord,  thanks  to  all!     Peace  be  with  you. 
Farewell !  [Exeunt. 

So  much  for  their  nobility ! 

Didst  note,  my  Salisbury,  how  constrained  their  words, 
Their  actions  forced,  uneasy — guilty  souls 
They  bear  about  with  them — trust  them? 

You  know  me  better — 

Besides,  I  have  old  claims  on  them — a  wrong 
A'Becket  will  forgive,  but  not  forget. 


62  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  in. 

SALISBURY. 

Such  wrongs  you  never  can :  use  them,  but  watch  them. 

A'BECKET. 

We  will :  prepare  a  fitting  escort  to  the  Court 
To-night — to-morrow  we'll  to  England. 
But  what  should  faith  professed,  prove  false  ? 
Louis  bade  me  not  trust,  save  that  the  kiss 
Of  peace  were  given — this  he  will  refuse — 
Bear  this  forthwith  unto  the  Bishops  of  London 
And  Salisbury,  and  to  the  world  make  known 
My  sentence  of  excommunication  against  them. 
Now  will  I  fix  upon  foundation  firm 
As  that  whereon  Albion's  white  din's  are  based 
My  Empire  and  my  honors.     En-gland's  glory 
And  the  Church's  power — her  people's  welfare 
And  her  nobles'  pride — shall  be  A'Becket's  care. 


END  OF  ACT  III. 


SCENE   I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  63 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE    FIRST. 
A  large  Hall  in  De  Tracy's  Castle,  England. 

Enter  FITZUBSE. 
FITZUBSE. 
New  wonder  on  new  wonder — 

A'Becket 

And  the  King  at  peace !     No  thanks  to  me  for  this. 
The  churlish  priest  ere  now  had  been  but  dust, 
Had  Henry  ta'en  my  counsel. 

DE  TRACT  enters. 

De  Tracy, 

Hast  heard  the  news  ?    They  say,  last  night,  strange  things 
Were  seen — water  was  cast  upon  a  burning  .pile 
And  brighter  made  the  flames ;  with  the  furred  cat 
The  house-infesting  vermin  couched  ; 
And  the  watchful  guardian  of  my  house  fawned 
On  the  thief  assailed  it ! 

DE  TBACY. 

'Tis  strange,  indeed ! 
FITZUBSE. 
Yet  stranger  still  is  what  hath  happ'd  to-day. 

DE  TBACT. 

How  so  ? 

FITZUBSE. 

A'Becket  and  the  King  are  palm  in  palm. 

DE  TBACY. 

Bright  omen,  Fitz.,  for  you! 


64  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  iv. 

FITZITBSE. 

Indeed! 

DE  TRACT. 

May  not  his  fair  niece  partake  the  nature  of  the  times  ? 

FITZUBSE. 

The  sun  which  gladdens  nature's  face,  ne'er  changes 
His  fixed  course.     The  moon,  which  softly  smiles 
Upon  a  darkened  world,  may  gild,  not  chase,  the  gloom. 
No  change  e'er  comes  o'er  these  which  most  delight 
The  world's  sad  wayfarer.     How  may  the  fair  Lucille, 
Then,  turn  aside  and  smile  where  she  hath  frowned  ? 
No,  no,  De  Tracy !    [Aside.]    He  shall  not  read  my  heart. 

DE  TRACY. 

In  charity. 

FITZtTRSE. 

In  charity !     Should  Fitzurse  prize  the  hand 
Without  the  heart  ?     The  sun  is  golden, 
But  without  its  heat,  what  would  its  radiance  be  ? 
'Twould  catch  the  eye,  but  on  the  senses  pall. 
De  Tracy,  I  have  lived  in  court  and  camp  ; 
Wealth,  honor,  want,  despite,  have  been  my  lot ; 
With  all  there  was  a  void — a  lack  of  something 
Which  I  knew  not  of.     When  griefs  afflicted 
And  when  joys  assailed,  alike  'twas  felt, 
My  friend — a  loneliness.    I  knew  not  whence 
It  came,  till  fair  Lucille  I  saw. 

DE  TBACY. 

Why  then 
Too  proud  to  take  the  hand  ? 

FITZURSE. 

The  hand  without  the  heart  1 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS  A^BECKET.  65 

DE  TRACT. 

When  lovely  woman  so  regards  a  man 
That  she'll  to  him  intrust  her  lot  and  fortune, 
Is  it  not  worth  more,  when  springing  from  esteem, 
Than  when  it  shoots  to  life,  like  the  fair  flower 
That  blooms  at  dawn,  to  close  ere  noonday  comes  ? 
The  plant  of  slowest  growth  is  longest  lived, 
Its  shoots  the  farthest  and  is  firmest  fixed ! 

FITZUBSE. 

It  may  be  so — but  love  without  romance ! 

DE  TRACT. 

Have  done  with  fancy !     She's  a  fickle  dame ! 

Her  votaries  decks  in  colors  false  and  fleeting. 

Your  nature  has  too  much  of  the  bright  clime 

Wherein  your  youth  was    passed.      The    wave  which 

sparkles 

May  a  poison  bear,  when  raised  unto  the  lip, 
While  sluggish  waters  will  the  fainting  form 
Awake  to  life  and  strength ! 

If  fair  Lucille  but  smiles ! 

FITZTJKSE. 
Alas !  how  can  she  ? 

DE  TEACT. 

Deem  that  she  prizes  justly  your  true  worth, 
Now  longer,  better  known. 

Here  are  De  Moreville 
And  Sir  Richard  Brito. 

Enter  DE  MOEEVILLE  and  SIE  RICHARD  BRITO. 
Welcome,  Gentlemen !     My  Lord  Fitzurse, 
Sir  Richard  Brito  and  De  Moreville  here 
Have  ever  found  a  home.    We  once  were  a  merry  crew ; 


66  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  iv. 

Let's  be  as  merry  as  the  times  permit. 
Ho !  boy,  there ! — wine.     [  To  FITZUBSE.]    Come,  Sir,  be 
one  of  us. 

FITZTJESE. 

With  all  my  heart !  Here's  to  you,  Gentlemen ! 
Why,  'tis  as  good  as  is  your  speech,  De  Tracy — 
A  free  and  generous  wine. 

DE  TRACY. 

Thanks,  noble  friend ! 
Here's  unto  all,  long  life  and  happiness ! 
Why  hangs,  Fitzurse,  this  cloud  upon  your  face  ? 
Your  manly  spirit  should  o'eiiook  the  ills 
Of  life,  and  smile  at  frowning  fortune. 
Clear,  clear  thy  brow,  and  let  it  shine  as  does 
The  mountain's  top,  high  o'er  the  thunder-storm. 

FITZURSE. 

It  shall.     Yet  gives  not  the  mist  enshrouds  the  mount 
From  view,  a  richer  beauty  to  it,  when  'tis  seen  ? 

DE  TKACY. 

Ay,  truly !     But  a  truce  to  jesting ;  what  ill 
Afflicts  you  ? 

FITZURSE    tO    DE  MOREVILLE. 

Thou  hast  heard  the  news  ?     A'Becket 
And  the  King  at  peace ! 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

At  peace !     Is't  from  that  quarter 

That  this  storm-cloud  comes  ?     Strange !  strange,  indeed ! 
A'Becket  has  a  niece,  my  Lord.        [FITZURSE,  impatient. 
To  DE  TRACY.]     You've  seen  the  fair  Lucille  ? 

DE  TRACY. 

When  but  a  child. 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

The  loveliest  flower  boasts  not  the  richest  bud. 


SCENE   I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  67 

ITTZUBSE. 

Most  true !     Yet,  is  not  Lucille  beautiful  ? 

Aside.'] 

I  hoped,  A'Becket  outworn  with  grief, 
Lucille,  our  Liege's  ward,  I  might  have  won  her. 
Her  wealth  would  prop  my  falling  fortunes, 
Though  her  disprize  should  chill  my  heart. 

DE  MOBEVTLLE. 

The  fairest  maid  e'er  seen !     Fair  Venus'  prototype ! 
You  loved  her  once  ? 

FITZTJBSE. 

And  if  I'd  live  must  win  her. 
Will  not  A'Becket  strive  so  to  please  our  King, 
As  in  his  favor  henceforth  e'er  to  live  ? 
Henry's  command  might  find  a  willing  ear, 
Were  the  past  brought  to  mind. 

BEITO. 

Wouldst  thou  threaten  the  great  A'Becket  ? 
You  know  him  not,  my  Lord.     His  surplice  clothes 
As  stout  a  heart  as  ever  armor  cased. 
Shrinks  the  firm-based  rock  from  wave 
That  may  overwhelm  it  ?     Who'd  dare  so  much 
As  name  the  word,  to  threat  ?     His  glance 
Would  fall  on  him  like  Heaven's  thunderbolt ; 
His  stately  mien,  awe-filling,  strike  him  mute ! 
I  am  a  soldier,  one  who  has  borne  arms 
From  youth  to  age,  and  yet  would  brave  the  serried  ranks 
Rather  than  face  that  tongue's  keen  irony. 
Oh !  be  advised  by  me. 

DE  MOEEVILLE. 

Sir  Richard  well  doth  speak. 
King  Henry's  favorite  and  A'Becket's  friend, 
Your  suit  were  easily  gained,  never  as  his  foe. 


68  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  iv. 

Render  the  Primate  favors — he'll  not  frown ; 

And  then,  in  gratitude,  his  niece's  thoughts 

Will  turn  to  you ;  her  heart  float  down  the  silver  stream 

Of  peace,  and  fancy  bear  it  through  its  flowery  brakes, 

To  the  glittering  source  whence  all  her  new  joys  spring. 

De  Tracy,  thinkst  not  so  ? 

DE  TRACT. 

You  counsel  well,  my  Lord — 
And  yet,  Fitzurse,  the  hand  without  the  heart ! 

FITZTJBSE. 

That  matters  not !     I'll  wear  her,  if  not  win  her ! 

The  ray  that  woos  the  verdant  mead,  dispels 

The  mist  enshrouds  it  from  its  heat. 

So  shall  my  heart's  fond  love  the  tear  that  dims 

Lucille's  bright  eye,  and  'neath  its  warmth  new  beauties 

bring 
To  light.     Now  let's  to  Court,  my  Lords ! 

BEITO. 

Wouldst  wrest 

The  flower  from  the  parent  stem,  where  it  would  bloom 
For  many  a  day,  to  see  it  fade  and  fall 
Within  the  hour  ? 

FITZURSE. 
A'Becket  rules  this  realm  but  as  I  rule  her  heart ! 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

Believe  me,  my  Lord, 
Its  rich  gem  gone,  the  casket's  not  worth  having ! 

FITZURSE. 

Leave  that  to  me,  my  arms  shah1  be  its  setting. 
I'm  for  the  Court.  \Exit. 


SCENE  n.]          THOMAS  A'BECKET.  69 

< 
DE  TRACT. 

Sol!  So  all! 

There  shall  we  see  if  he  is  Fortune's  child — 
I'll  save  this  rnaid,  unless  she  loves,  from  love  so  wild. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE   SECOND. 
Porch  to  the  King's  Ante-room. 

HERALD. 

The  Lord  Archbishop  conies  ! 

HENRY. 

We  will  descend  and  greet  him 
As   our   brother.      [To   FITZURSE.]     Note   him,   young 

Lord! 

A'BECKET  enters  in  great  state,  he  and  his  suite  mounted. 
Welcome,  my  Lord  Archbishop,  to  my  Court ! 

A'BECKET,  dismounting. 
My  service  to  your  Majesty. 

HENRT. 

We  gave  this  audience  that,  your  wishes  learnt, 
Once  more  we  might  be  friends — we  have  no  need 
Of  words — what  is  your  wish  ? 
A'BECKET. 

First,  that,  being  your  subject, 
You  free  pardon  grant  for  all  that's  past. 

HE2OJY. 

'Tis  thine. 
A'BECKET. 

Then,  as  being  England's  Primate, 
That  you  restore  to  me  the  Church  of  Canterbury, 
All  its  possessions,  and  your  royal  favor, 


70  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  iv. 

With  promise  on  my  part  of  love  and  honor, 

And  whatsoever  may  be  performed  by  an  Archbishop 

Unto  his  sovereign.  • 

HENRY. 

"Tis  granted  all — all's  thine — 
Herewith  unto  my  favor  I  receive  you 
And  your  friends.     Go,  for  a  time,  with  me 
To  Normandy,  where  we  may  labor  for  our  subjects'  good. 

A'BECKET. 

Long  absent  from  my  friends  and  country,  Sire, 
'Twould  please  me,  had  I  leave,  straightway  to  sail 
For  England. 

HENRY. 

Your  pleasure  is  mine,  my  Lord,  to  England 
Let  it  be.     My  Court  in  Normandy  is  ever  thine, 
When  it  shall  please  your  Holiness. 
A'BECKET. 

Thanks,  my  Liege ;  thanks  ! 

HENRY. 

"  Would  you  but  do  as  I  desire,  all  things 
Should  be  intrusted  to  your  care." 

A'BECKET. 

It  shall  be  so. 

HENRY. 

'Tis  well !  At  Rouen  you  will  find  meet  preparations  made ; 

And  her  Archbishop  your  escort  to  England. 

Now  unto  Court ;  where  we  in  harmony, 

Amid  our  assembled  friends,  will  close  the  day. 

Bring  here  our  steeds.  [Exeunt  attendants. 

The  horses   are  brought;    A'BECKET  prepares  to  mount, 
when  the  King  holds  his  stirrup. 

A'BECKET. 
Nay,  pardon  me,  my  Liege  ;  this  is  not  meet  1 


SCENE    III.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  71 

HENRY. 

The  monarch  of  the  realm  makes  all  things  meet ; 
Mount,  my  Lord  Primate  ! 

A'BECKET. 

Nay,  nay,  my  Liege ! 

HENRY. 

I  will  be  King,  even  in  my  courtesies. 

A'BECKET. 
So  be  it.  [Kisses  the  King's  hand  and  mounts. 

HENRY. 

On  to  the  Court,  my  friends  ! 

[All  mount  and  ride  off. 


SCEXE  THIRD. 
The  Court. 

Lords  and  Gentlemen  in  waiting.     Enter  FITZURSE,  DE 
TRACY,  DE  MOREVILLE,  and  SIR  RICHARD  BRITO. 

FITZTJRSE. 
Lo !  where  they  come !     How  loving,  palm  in  palm ! 

DE  TRACY. 

"Tis  so !    Stand  back,  my  Lords  !     The  King  ! 
Enter  KING  HENRY,  and  A'BECKET,  and  attendants. 

HENRY. 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  receive  once  more 
My  reverend  counsellor  and  loving  friend, 
Thomas  A'Becket,  Primate  of  England, 
Of  Canterbury  Archbishop,  unto  our  favor, 
And  all  those  honors  so  justly  his,  herein  restored. 
Respect  him,  as  you  love  me. 


72  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  iv. 

ALL. 

Welcome  to  the  Lord  Primate  ! 

A'BECKET. 

Thanks  unto  all  !     Thanks  unto  your  Majesty, 
That  you  have  so  o'erstepped  the  bounds 
Of  kingly  condescension,  thus  to  the  Court 
Presenting  me.     [^ls/r/e.]     Pour  oil  on  ruffled  waves, 
For  when  the  storm's  just  o'er,  their  swell  is  highest. 


Though  time  has  changed  the  mortal  part  of  him 

Here  unto  you  returned,  the  immortal  soul 

Has  grown  most  strong  iu  sacred  learning  ; 

Holding  communion  with  those  happier  climes 

Where  virtue  only  reign.3.     That  realm  alone 

Higher  is  than  England's,  and  on  the  faults 

And  failings  of  mankind  looks  with  more  kindly  eye. 

My  noble  Lords,  here  see  I  those 

I  called  my  friends,  and  found  my  foes  ! 

But,  with  my  blessing  on  you  all,  accept 

From  me  free  pardon  of  the  past. 

Let  the  volume  of  your  hate  be  sealed, 

So  far  as  aught's  recorded  against  me  ; 

Mine  did  I  long  since  hurl  far  down  the  past's  abyss. 

Look  to  the  motives  which  did  move  me  once, 

The  means  I  used  you'll  find  were  just. 

LOEDS. 
He  would  uphold  the  past  !     Treason  to  our  King  ! 

A'BECKET. 

Peace  awhile  !     Let  not  ill-tempered  haste 
Dash  into  atoms  the  frail  cup  of  love  I  offer 
To  your  lips.     Here  is  no  treason  !     I  would  that  Church 

and  State 
Were  as  twin  brothers,  linked  in  amity  ; 


SCENE   HI.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  73 

United,  they  shall  stand  till  time's  no  more  ; 
Divided,  they  must  fall  ere  set  of  sun. 

Discontent  among  the  Lords.] 
My  Liege,  command  that  silence  reign,  else  our  good 

purpose  fails ; 

And  all  that's  done  be  but  as  words  written 
On  the  sea-shore's  sands. 

HENRY. 

Peace,  my  Lords,  peace !     Who  speaks, 
His  King  oflends. 

My  Lord  High  Primate  asks 
Attentive  ears. 

A'BECKET. 

In  our  honored  King,  my  Lords,  the  father 
Of  this  great  realm,  you  see  the  pride,  the  power 
Of  England — in  me,  the  instrument  of  Heaven ; 
An  humble  agent  of  its  blessed  will. 
What  were  our  King  disrobed,  dethroned  ? 
What  were  the  priest,  stripped  of  his  sacred  office  ? 
Foes  are  there  who'd  delight  in  Henry's  fall ! 
Foes  are  there  who  do  long  for  my  dishonor ! 
The  heart  must  entertain  and  harbor  vice, 
Ere  the  seducer's  voice  can  steal 
Into  its  curtained  chambers,  and  rob  it  of  its  jewel. 
Remember  this ;  be  true  unto  yourselves, 
Your  King,  your  country.     You'll  find  Truth's  legions 
Are  your  best  resource.     All  are  but  men — yet  he 
Who   worthiest   bears    his    charge,   adds   honor   to   his 

honors. 
Your  ear,  my  King. 

DE  MOBEVILLE,  CLSlde. 

How  bold  a  tongue  he  has  ! 

BKITO. 

Said  I  not  so  ? 
4 


74  THOMAS  A'DKCKET.  [ACT  iv. 

DE  TIIACY. 

And  yet,  how  gilded  is  his  speech ; 
It  falls  upon  the  ear  as  on  the  eye  the  sun ; 
So  dazzling  it  doth  dim,  and  bears  the  mind 
Along,  unconscious  of  the  course  it  takes. 

FITZURSE. 

He's  very  dangerous — his  speech  is  serpent-like — 
It  charms  but  to  destroy !     Were  he  but  dumb 
I  then  could  master  him.     I  fear  this  peace  is  short. 

DE  TKACY. 

Ha !  the  King's  brow  doth  cloud. 

A'BECKET. 

The  kiss  of  peace  refused ! 
My  Liege,  why  so  ? 

HENKY. 

A  vow  I  made  precludes  its  gift. 
A'BECKET. 

The  conference,  then,  is  o'er.     The  bond, 
Without  the  seal,  were  valueless.     My  Liege ! 
My  Liege !  think  well  of  this.     'Tis  a  slight  gift — 
A  gift  when  given  not  gone,  so  rich  the  return 
'Twill  yield.     My  King,  retract  thy  vow  ;  the  Church 
Permits.     A'Becket  then  is  yours — we  must  be  friends. 

Asidel\      I  must  not  sue.     I,  who  so  soon  enthroned 
Shall  be,  high  over  all  earth's  kings. 

Still  my  country  speaks. 

To  HENRY.] 

Your  realm  demands  it,  a  people's  groans  mourn 
Their  sad  miseries ;  and  a  distracted  land — 
Most  eloquent  counsellor  in  my  cause — 
Pleads  loud  for  it. 


SCENE  III.]  THOMAS   A'BECKET!  75 

HENRY. 

It  may  not  be.     What  England  says 
Must  be — our  word,  our  bond. 

FITZUKSE. 

My  Liege,  the  price 

That's  paid  cancels  the  bond.     Here,  see  the  smiling  face 
Of  lovely  peace ;  there,  dire  war's  frowning  brow, 
With  all  its  attendant  horrors. 

HENRY. 

You  counsel  peace, 
Young  Lord,  who  ever  were  for  war?     You  lack  not 

courage ! 

Has  he  sought  to  bribe  you,  my  tried  follower  ? 
A'BECKET,  scornfully. 

To  bribe! 

EITZUKSE. 

To  bribe !     Could  I  be  bribed,  my  brow  had  never  worn 
This  deep  gash  which  now  it  bears,  a  valued  trophy 
Of  the  day  I  met  the  blow,  were  else  my  King's. 

HENRY. 

True,  true,  I've  wronged  you ! 
A'BECKET,  aside. . 

Not  the  first  wrong  you've  done  him. 
Fouled  in  his  birth,  not  even  though  King, 
Canst  thou  cleanse  him. 

HENRY. 

Take  here  my  thanks,  young  Lord ! 
While  thus  reminded  of  a  deed,  till  now  forgotten — 
One  you  should  be  proud  of,  wear  this  sword, 
For  years  my  constant  friend !    As  I  have  worn  it 
So  I'll  wear  you ;  ever  my  counsellor 
Both  in  Court  and  camp.     When  your  King  finds 
True  merit,  he  rewards  it.     Is  it  not  so,  A'Becket  ? 


76  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  iv. 

A'BECKET. 

I  thought  so  once,  my  Liege,  and  much  it  pains  me, 
That  this  hour  should  be  a  witness  against  that  thought. 

HENRY. 

It  shall  not  be  so.     The  kiss  of  peace  may  not  be  yours, 

A  vow  made  in  an  hasty  hour  precludes  it. 

But  come  unto  my  heart.  \They  embrace. 

My  Lords,  this  day  does  unto  England  bear 

Unheard  of  blessings.     A  prosperous  people 

Are  the  greatest  riches  which  a  land  can  boast. 

To  A'BECKET.] 

Herein  do  I  restore  you  to  my  love, 
As  I  already  have  unto  your  honors. 
I  must  away  to  Normandy.     Preserve  my  realm 
In  peace.     Farewell  to  all ! 

A'BECKET. 

Farewell !  most  gracious  Majesty ! 
May  Heaven's  choicest  blessings  be  with  you, 
And  honor,  love,  and  a  long  life  be  yours. 

HENRY. 

Thanks  unto  all !     Farewell ! 

Exeunt  the  KING  and  his  attendants  except  FITZITRSE. 

A'BECKET. 

My  friends,  we  will  prepare  for  our  return 
To  Canterbury.  [FITZURSE  approaches. 

Young  Lord,  you  have  well  spoken ; 
And  though  I  had  preferred  some  other's  voice, 
My  thanks  are  due  to  you. 

FITZURSE. 

Father,  receive  it  as  an  act 

Was  due  from  one  has  wronged  you  much, 


SCENE   III.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  77 

Owes  you  great  favors.     May  I  not  claim  your  pardon 
For  the  past,  since  you  have  said  that  all  foregone  is  for-  4 
gotten  ? 

A'BECKET. 

Pardon,  I  may  not  grant.     You  have  my  prayers 
That  you  will  ever  walk  in  honor's  footsteps. 
Whate'er  the  toil  in  tracing  them,  they  at  least 
Will  lead  to  pleasure  and  to  peace. 

FITZUESE. 
It  shall  be  so.     When  may  I  wait  on  you  ? 

A'BECKET. 
When  I  return  to  England. 

FITZUESE. 
Not  before  ?  my  suit  is  urgent. 

A'BECKET. 
And  my  cares  are  many. 

FITZURSE. 

None,  none  so  great  as  mine — 
A  young  heart's  hopes. 

A'BECKET. 

Rash  youth,  touch  not  upon  that  chord, 
Whole  seas  of  misery  are  in  those  words ! 

FITZUBSE. 

Hast  known  love  ?     Thou  knowest  what  I  do  feel. 
Past  words,  past  thought,  for  reason  holds  no  sway, 
When  love  gives  birth  to  hope ! 
A'BECKET. 

Love !  profane  not  with  thy  lips 
That  holy  word.     'Twas  made  for  angels ! 
Mortals  know  it  not ! 

FITZUESE. 
What  mean  these  words  ? 


78  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  iv. 

A'BECKET. 

Impatient,  wayward,  and  Avilful  from  thy  youth, 

I  hoped  thou  wouldst  to  honor  grow. 

Unknown  to  you,  I  nursed  you  in  your  infancy, 

Watched  o'er  your  boyhood,  and  when  to  manhood  grown, 

Sought  to  instill  all  generous  sentiments. 

You  know  not  how  I  loved  you ! 

I  hud  a  niece,  the  only  being  who  did  bear  my  blood, 

Sole  surviving  daughter  of  a  sister  loved 

Only  as  angels  are ;  as  bright,  as  good, 

As  beautiful  as  they. 

You  wooed  her. 

Deeming  you  were  the  soul  of  honor,  your  faults 
The  faults  of  generous  youth — your  suit  I  favored. 
The  lady's  eyes  found  grace  was  in  your  form, 
And  gave  admittance  in  her  guileless  heart 
To  your  too  potent  wooing. 

And  I  was  glad, 

For  you  I  had  preferred  to  all  the  glittering  throng 
Who  wooed  my  niece.     I  looked  on  this 
As  the  sheet-anchor  of  my  declining  years. 
I  thought  that  my  solicitude  for  you 
Would  be  rewarded  by  your  tender  care 
Of  her  I  loved  so  well — that  she  would  be 
Incentive  unto  you  to  every  noble  deed — 
And  thus  together  you  would  walk  in  honor. 
But  no !  not  so  !     The  lurking  devil  showed 
His  cloven  foot.     Your  angel  read  deceit 
Upon  your  brow,  and  handed  me  this  letter. 

FITZUKSE. 

Ha !  is  it  so  ?     What  fiend  was't  gave  it  her  ? 
Give !  give  it  me !  that  I  may  track  him  down ! 


SCENE  III.]  THOMAS  A'BECKET. 

A'BECKET. 

Nay,  it  matters  not !     Thou  ownest  its  truth 
By  thy  hasty  words — the  heart  that's  new  in  crime 
Betrays  itself.     Thou  canst  not  wear  the  coronet 
Had  been  thine.     Dishonor  now  is  seared 
Upon  thy  brow. 

FITZUBSE,  touching  his  sword. 

Tome! 
A'BECKET. 

Darest  threaten ! 
The  curse  of  Rome — 

FJTZTJESE,  kneeling. 
Stay !  stay !  those  dreadful  words ! 

A'BECKET. 

I  do  relent.     I  will  not  curse  thee,  tho'  thou  merit  it. 
The  serpent's  curse  was  on  thee  from  thy  birth ! 
Thy  wrongs  array  thee  'gainst  thy  fellow-men ! 
Kneel  then !  though  thou  mayest  sting  my  heel 
('Tis  all  thou  canst  do),  I  will  not  bruise  thy  head. 

FITZUBSE  kneels.] 

Kneel  at  this  whitened  sepulchre  of  lofty -aspirations 
And  repent.     It  is  the  holy  teaching  of  my  Church, 
Repentance  never  comes  too  late  to  any  man. 


END  OF  ACT  IV. 


THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE   FIRST. 
Hall  in  Palace  at  Canterbury — A'Becket  alone. 

A'BECKET. 

Land  of  my  birth !  my  weal,  my  woe !  all  hail ! 
All  hail !     You  yet  shall  be  my  grave !     My  grave  ? 
And  have  I  toiled  through  life  for  this  ? — for  this 
Alone  ? 

Is  this  the  whole  of  man's  brief  tale,  the  sum 
Of  his  mortality  ? 

Of  dust  we're  born,  like  dust  we're  buffeted 
By  fortune's  fickle  winds,  at  most  but  fourscore  years  or  so, 
And  then  to  dust  return.     Oh !  sickening  thought ! 
The  loathsome  grave  and  its  vile  myriads 
Disgust  man  with  his  nature ! 
But  that  a  higher  destiny  awaits 
The  soul  immortal,  here  doth  own  at  best 
A  slight  brief  tenancy,  how  worse  than  valueless 
Were  life,  that  principle  which  still  doth  live 
Through  all  the  changes  of  mortality — 
This  it  must  be !  yea !  yea !  'tis  this  that  makes 
Us  struggle  through  the  ills  on  us  attend, 
From  cradled  infancy  to  the  grave  of  age. 

LUCILLE  enters. 

Ah !  my  fair  Lucille !     What  ?  tears  in  your  old  home  ? 
Give  not  way  to  grief!  'tis  the  medicine 
Of  the  soul,  wisely  administered, 
By  an  unerring  hand. 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  81 

LUCILLE. 

I  know  this  well,  dear  Father,  and  its  truth 

I  feel — but  my  grief  is  so  heavy !     'Tis  dreadful 

Thus  to  have  the  heart's  first  flowers  crushed 

In  their  bloom !    To  have  the  name,  I  once  so  fondly  hoped 

That  I  should  proudly  bear,  dishonor's  synonym ! 

Alas !  my  poor,  weak  woman  heart !     I  thought 

I  had  o'ermastered  thee,  but  thou  o'ermasterest  me ! 

Thy  tendrils  are  too  firmly  fixed  within  my  breast, 

For  even  the  direst  wrongs  to  root  it  out. 

A'BECKET. 

True  'tis,  my  child,  that  it  is  dreadful ; 
But  the  hand  that  wounds  will  heal. 

LUCILLE. 

Oh,  would  it  might !     For  since  that  most  dread  hour 
When  I  first  learnt  his  perfidy — Ah  me, 
That  I  should  call  it  so ! — Not  even  one  instant 
Have  I  been  alone.     My  grief  is  everywhere — 
Its  melancholy  notes  I  hear  at  dawn, 
High  o'er  the  lark's ;  the  woods  by  day, 
But  with  its  plaintive  melody  are  filled ; 
And  when  night  comes,  her  hideous  birds 
Haunt  me,  where'er  I  wander — and  then 
When  sleep's  sweet  hours  draw  nigh,  most  frightful  dreams 
Hover  about  my  couch  in  hosts.     Oh,  Father ! 
Life  is  dreadful  at  such  cost ! 

A'BECKET. 

Join  the  gay  crowd, 
My  child.     Call  to  memory's  chambers 
Blithesome  thoughts ;  their  fragrance  will  refresh 
Your  wounded  spirit,  and  healing  bring  thy  soul. 
Time  is  the  grand  disposer  of  events — the  hour 
Of  joy  will  come ! 
4* 


82  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

LUCILLE. 

The  hour  of  joy ! 

A'BECKET. 

That  was  my  word — 
Remember,  you  are  A'Becket's  niece. 
LUCILLE. 

I  win, 

And  be  his  child.     I'll  think  those  scenes  of  pleasure, — 
Long    since    flown — sounded    depths,    I    thought    were 

fathomless, 
And  seek  for  rock-based  charms. 

A'BECKET. 
'Twere  well !     But  leave  me,  child ! 

One  who  hath  wronged  me  much 
Craves  a  brief  interview,  and  comes  e'en  now. 

LUCILLE. 

Is  it  Fitzurse,  that  you'd  not  have  me  here  ? 
Forgive  him !     Oh,  forgive  him,  Father,  for  my  sake ! 
Alas !  that  ever  I  should  have  betrayed 
The  Lord  I  loved ! — but  v/as  he  not  unworthy  ? 
How  wretched  must  he  be,  his  fair  fame  gone ! 
Spare  him !  oh !  spare  him,  Father ! 
A'BECKET. 

Be  comforted,  my  child. 

I  will !  I  will !     [Kissing  her.]     There !  there !  be  com 
forted  ! 
I'll  leave  him  to  himself — Let  conscience  be  his  monitor. 

[Exit  LUCILLE. 

Alas  !  sweet  maid,  child  of  misfortune ! 
Untimely  born,  you  cost  a  wridow'd  mother's  life. 
But  here  he  comes.     How  can  I  e'er  forget  the  past  ? 
By  him  this  fair  field  ravaged — all  its  flowers  felled ! 
Enter  FITZUIISE.]     What  would  you,  Sir  ?  be  brief 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  83 

FTTZUBSE. 

Then,  to  be  brief,  your  pardon. 
A'BECKET. 

Take  it,  with  this  request, 
That  we  may  meet  no  more. 

FITZUESE. 
There  is  a  name  I  fain  would  lisp. 

A'BECKET. 

Nay,  name  it  not,  it  is  too  pure  for  lips 
Like  thine. 

FITZTJESE. 
Oh !  say,  she  is  well ! 

A'BECKET. 

As  well  as  one 

So  deeply  wronged  can  be.     Farewell !  farewell ! 
You  have  my  pardon.     Pray,  leave  me  now.     You  call 
•  To  memory  life's  heaviest  hours,  which  I  would  fain  for 
get. 

FITZUESE. 

Oh !  grant  that  I  may  labor  in  your  cause ; 
Restore  myself  unto  your  favor ;  regain  your  niece's  love. 

A'BECKET. 
Art  mad  ? 

FITZUESE. 
I  trust  not,  Father.     May  I  not  see  her  ? 

A'BECKET. 

Go  gaze  upon  the  lily  the  whirlwind  hath  crushed  ; 
You'll  see  her  image  without  paining  her. 
Leave  me,  Sir !  [Stands  lost  in  thought. 

FITZUESE,  aside. 

Alas  !  why  had  King  Henry's  will  more  weight 
Than  my  dishonor  ? 


84  THOMAS   A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

Aloud.]  'Tiswell!     I  will!     Farewell! 

Ruler  of  England,  and  Lord  Primate,  too ! 
If  Fitzurse  lives,  this  hour  you  shall  rue.  \Exit. 

Enter  SALISBURY. 

SALISBURY. 

My  Lord,  those  Bishops  did  refuse  to  take  the  oath, 
And  straightway  sailed  for  Normandy. 

A'BECKET. 
Is't  so  ?     Now  comes  a  storm ! 

SALISBURY. 

The  young  prince  doth  refuse 
To  meet  you,  and  commands  that  you  remain 
Within  the  Church's  verge. 

A'BECKET. 

From  Prince  Henry,  this  ? 
I  had  not  believed  it,  came  it  not  from  you ; 
He  ever  was  to  me  a  son  ! 

SALISBURY. 

All  those  of  note 

Who  welcomed  your  return,  are  summoned 
To  give  bail,  upon  a  charge  of  base  sedition  ! 

A'BECKET. 

This  from  King  Henry  ?     Well,  I  can  thunder  too ! 
I'll  issue  an  excommunication 
Against  his  dearest  friends :  the  Lords  De  Vere, 
Clifford,  and  Montreuil.     See  this  done  upon  the  instant. 
Exit  SALISBURY.    Enter  ALBERT,  ushering  in  REGINALD  DE 

WARENNE  and  GERVASE  DE  CORNHILL. 
Welcome  !  my  noble  Lords,  what  is  your  pleasure  ? 

REGINALD. 

Straight  as  your  question  is  our  reply : 

We  come  as  ministers  of  the  King,  demanding  why 


SCENE  I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  85 

On  York's  Archbishop  you  have  passed 
Sentence  of  suspension,  and  against  London 
And  Salisbury,  excommunication  ? 

A'BECKET. 

We  recognize  no  right,  either  in  yourselves, 
Or  him,  whose  ministers  ye  claim  to  be, 
My  reasons  to  demand  for  this,  or  any  other  act ! 

BEGIN  ALD. 

Is  it  come  to  this  ?     Indeed,  our  Henry  is  but  King 

In  name !      Mean  you,  my  Lord,  to  bring  both  fire  and 

sword 
Upon  our  afflicted  land  ? 

A'BECKET. 

My  acts  will  answer  that. 

CORNHILL. 

The  Lords  De  Broc,  and  Nigel  de  Sackville, 
What  of  them  and  their  many  friends  ? 

A'BECKET. 

But  this — since  by  their  acts  they've  brought 
Heaven's  thunder  upon  their  heads ;  they  must  find 
In  other  place  than  this,  the  power  shall  shield 
Them  from  its  fury. 

Go  ask  their  injured  tenantry 

What  they  deserve !     Nay,  nay,  nay,  nay,  not  ask ; 
But  look  upon  the  ruined  father 

And  his  polluted  child !     You'll  find  there's  many  such. 
Let  this  be  my  reply  :  the  interest  of  my  land 
Is  my  first  thought.     Henceforth  know,  noble  Lords, 
That  as  the  populace  of  England  need  a  friend 
To  guard  them  from  oppression, 

That  friend  they  have  in  me  1 


86  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

REGINALD. 

By  this  we  know  your  feelings  towards  ourselves ; 

And  nothing's  left  to  say,  but  fare-you-well !         [Exeunt. 

A'BECKET. 

Farewell  to  you  !     What  mean  these  haughty  nobles  ? 
Shall  their  cold  words,  or  their  unmanly  threats 
Turn  me  from  duty's  path — even  tho'  the  cries 
Of  injured  innocence  fell  not  each  instant 
On  my  ear  ?     Oh !  poor  nobility,  thou  wronged  name  ! 
Thy  nature  has  descended  to  the  serf; 
There !  there  alone,  we  find  you,  robed  in  rags  ! 
Henry  will  know  me  now,  for  York,  the  chronicler 
Of  each  day's  pettiest  acts,  has  fled  to  Baieux ; 
Where  England's  King,  like  the  huge  monarch 
Of  all  creeping  things,  will,  squeezing 
For  the  pleasure  of  the  hour,  make  him  but  one  day's 

feast. 
Fie  on  such  men !     Ho !  Albert,  ho !          \Enter  ALBERT. 

Bear  this  to  Lord  Salisbury  instantly. 
Command  immediate  execution  of  my  will. 

Exit  ALBERT.] 

Fitzurse  is  dangerous.     Banishment  or  the  grave, 
His  choice ! 

Enter  SALISBURY,  in  haste. 
SALISBURY. 

Father,  why  this  ? 

A'B"ECKET. 
'Tis  my  will,  my  son  ! 

SALISBURY. 

Fitzurse  hath  friends ! 

A'BECKET. 

So  hath  A'Becket.     Albert,  bid  my  Lord  of  Blois 
Come  hither  J 


SCKNE   I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  87 

SALISBURY. 

Father,  pray  hear  me !     He  once  was  held 

By  you  in  honor.     For  no  known  offence  has  fallen 

From  your  favor ! 

A'BECKET. 

Men's  offences  are  not  always  known 
To  the  world ! 

SALISBURY. 

Most  true,  my  Lord ! 

But,  upon  what  pretence 
May  I  fulfil  your  order  ? 

A'BECKET. 

On  what  pretence  ? 

On  none !     Hast  lived  so  long  with  me  and  not  know 
This  ?     But  you  are  slothful  in  this  business. 
I  must  have  those  about  me  who  will  act 
My  very  thoughts ! 

SALISBURY. 

And  is  this  my  reward? 

A'BECKET. 
For  what  ? 

SALISBURY. 

Unbounded  love  for  you !     Great  sufferings, 
And  service  from  my  boyhood  until  now ! 
Father,  I  will  away,  and  bid  him  hence ; 
You're  over  anxious ;  this  would  make  you 
Ungenerous. 

A'BECKET. 

Poor  boy !  it  is  enough.     I've  worn  you 
Ever  by  my  side,  as  the  warrior  wears  his  sword ; 
A  graceful  weapon,  thinking  the  blade  true  steel, 


8  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

But  on  the  contest,  finding  it  poor  stuff, 
Casts  it  away ! 

I  wish  no  meanly  tempered  weapon 
For  my  use ! 

SALISBURY. 

Pardon,  my  Father,  I  spoke  not  thus 
In  aught  save  reverence.     I  would  not  you  should  do 
What  the  world  might  scan.     Men's  deeds  live  after 
them ! 

A'BECKET. 

True,  true,  you're  right,  my  friend !     They  do  !  they  do ! 
At  least -some  men's  do.     I  was  too  hasty. 
Give  me  the  order ;  mine  I  would  have  printed 
In  the  type  of  justice !  for  what  is  therein  clothed, 
Shall  until  Doomsday  live !     Bid  him  to  me. 

Exit  SALISBURY.]  [Enter  BLOIS. 

BLOIS. 

Father,  news  has  arrived,  Fitzurse  has  fled 
The  realm  in  rage !  denouncing  you  and  yours, 
And  swearing  vengeance ! 

A'BECKET. 

Indeed!  and  whither? 
BLOIS. 
I  fear  to  Baieux. 

A'BECKET. 

To  Baieux !     To  horse !  to  horse ! 
There's  danger  in  his  thunder !      Speed  to  the  nearest 

port! 

Here,  take  this  seal !     Arrest  him  on  the  instant ! 
Oh !  would  that  I  were  young  again !     I'd  post  myself, 
But  that  this  poor  mortality  is  too  feeble  grown 
To  bear  my  soul's  desires ;  messengers 
I  will  dispatch  to  every  sea-port  town, 


SCENE   I.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  89 

With  orders  to  arrest  him,  though  at  cost  of  life ! 
He,  of  all  men,  I  fear — for  he  is  false ! 
And  falsehood  is  more  deadly  in  its  touch 
Than  dagger's  venomed  point. 

Enter  SALISBURY.]  Salisbury,  what  now  ? 

SALISBURY. 

Fitzurse  has  fled  to  Henry ! 

A'BECKET. 
How  know  you  this  ? 

SALISBURY. 

Your  trusty  Hugh  is  here. 
Enter  HUGH. 

A'BECKET. 
How  know  you  this  ? 

HUGH. 

I  saw  him  take  a  fisher's  boat, 
And,  cursing  you,  bid  them  spread  all  sail 
And  steer  for  France.     He  knew  me  not. 
Deeming  his  errand  hostile  unto  you, 
My   Lord — a  marc  the  bribe — I  straight  despatched, 
With  those  I  knew  to  trust,  the  fastest  craft 
That  England's  waters  boast,  with  orders  to  arrest  him. 

A'BECKET. 
Well  done,  my  son !     But  were  your  orders  sealed  ? 

HUGH. 
They  were.    When  last  you  went  to  France  you  gave  me 

this, 
Your  seal. — [Showing  ring.] 

A'BECKET. 

Well  thought  in  thee ;  bring  me  the  earliest  news  of  him. 
Farewell,  my  sons !     Pray  leave  me  all  awhile, 
I  am  o'erwrought  to-day.  [Exeunt. 


90  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

.  Fitzurse  fled  to  Baieux ! 

Dread  news  for  me !  his  voice  has  too  much  power 
With  our  King. 

Ye  noiseless  ministers, 

Who  do  in  silence  watch  o'er  the  troubled  spirits 
Of  this  world !  oh,  guard  with  me  this  hour ! 
Dread  horror  strikes  deep  into  my  careworn  heart. 
Must  I  give  o'er — all  frustrated  my  schemes ! 
All  efforts  vain !     Toiled  have  I  oft 
By  aid  of  Heaven's  hosts  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
Ever,  but  brief  and  faint  like  glow-worm's  glimmer 
Hath  proved  my  rest. 

Pleasures  I've  tasted — 

So  the  worldlings  say — they  were  as  dear-bought, 
And  when  won,  as  trite,  as  galley  slave's  reward. 
Rest !  rest ! — there  is  no  rest  for  me !     Ambition, 
Bitter,  bitter  are  thy  fruits !     Man  fights  for  bubbles, 
And  but  bubbles  gains. 

This  is  the  song  of  all — 

And  yet  'tis  dear,  as  dear  as  is  his  mistress'  voice, 
Heard  by  the  lover  in  his  midnight  dreams. 
Ambition!  avarice!  glory!  love! 
Ye  all  but  golden  lures,  do  shine  and  sparkle 
Like  night's  spirits  on  your  way,  marking  a  course 
Uncertain  at  the  best.     Phantoms  which  all  men  chase, 
Yet  all  elude.     A  brief  short  hour  of  joy 
Of  life's  long  days,  is  all  that  I  have  known. 

Enter  LUCILLE — A'BECKET  entranced. 

Beautiful  spirit !  thou  who  leddest  my  heart, 
'Mid  heavenly  harmonies,  to  those  rich-gemmed  courts 
Where  loving  spirits  meet,  bring  comfort,  courage, 
And  a  firm  resolve  from  thy  blessed  realms  to  me, 
That  I  may  bear  the  trials  of  this  hour,  and  rule, 


SCENE   I.]  THOMAS    A?BECKET.  91 

Where  others  reign.     Ah !  my  fair  child,  is't  thou  ? 
Did  I  then  but  dream  ? 

LUCILLE. 
Alas,  you  did !  for  I  am  yet  but  mortal. 

A'BECKET. 

Nay,  say  not  so.     Consider,  sweet,  those  words 
But  as  the  air,  passes  unheeded  by. 

LUCILLE. 

Why  so,  dear  Father? 
Should  we  then  shame  to  own  our  loves  ? 

A'BECKET. 

Not  so ; 

But  rather  keep  them  to  ourselves,  as  gems 
The  miser  stores,  unknown  to  the  world,  to  feast 
Upon  in  solitude. 

Come,  child,  within. 

A  trump  heard.]  There's  news, 

I  hear,  from  France — will  need  my  care. 

Attend  on  me 
To-morrow.     Good-night!  good-night! 

LUCILLE. 

Grant  me  but  this — forgiveness  for  Fitzurse, 
For  though  I  would  not  wed  him, 

I  have  my  heart 
O'ertasked,  and  fancy  I  may  have  wronged  him. 

A'BECKET. 

Nay !  nay !  it  is  too  true !  too  true ! 
Hereafter  we  will  speak  of  this.     Good-night, 
Sweet  child !     Kind  angels  hover  o'er  thee !         [Exeunt. 


92  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v- 

SCENE   SECOND. 
Hall  in  Baieuz  Palace. 

Enter  HENKT  and  ARCHBISHOP  OF  YOEK. 

HENEY. 
My  Lord  Archbishop,  what  brings  you  here  from  York  ? 

YOEK. 

Suspended  by  the  Primate  of  your  realm, 
I  could  but  flee  to  you. 

HENET. 

Suspended !  on  what  grounds  ? 

YOEK. 

Grounds,  my  Liege  ?  did  this  A'Becket  e'er  require 
Grounds  ?     His  will !  his  will !  my  Liege — no  more. 

HENRY. 
Are  you  alone  the  sufferer  by  this  act  ? 

YOEK. 

No !  would  to  Heaven  I  were !     London 
And  Salisbury  both  have  fled  the  realm 
And  hasten  hither.     Their  excommunication 
Reached  them  also. 

HENEY. 

Impossible !     Is't  true  ? 
How  know  you  this  ? 

YOEK. 

From  their  own  lips  I  heard  it. 
HENEY. 
What  would  this  churlish  priest  ?   What  needs  he  more  ? 

YOEK. 
Methinks,  your  crown.     You'll  ne'er  know  peace,   my 

Liege, 
While  this  A'Becket  lives. 


SCENE  II.]  THOMAS    A'fiECKET.  93 

HENRY. 

Raze  from  the  calendar  the  day  he  came  to  life  : 
Blot  from  my  statute-book  his  seals.     Oh,  Heavens ! 
Am  I  but  king  in  name  ? 

Enter  DE  TRACY,  DE  MOREVLLLE,  and  SIR  RICHARD  BRITO. 

HENRY. 

What  news,  my  Lords,  from  England  ? 

DE  TRACY. 

My  Liege,  your  Primate  doth  refuse 
The  Lords  De  Broc  and  Sackville  to  restore. 

HENRY. 

Indeed !     Must  I  endure  all  this  ? 

"  Are  ye  all  cowards, 
"Who  do  eat  my  bread  ?     Is  there  not  one 
Will  free  me  from  this  turbulent  priest  ?" 
I  will  to  England  straight.     Attend  on  me, 
My  Lords. 
[Exeunt  all  except  DE  MOREVILLE,  DE  TRACY,  and  BRITO. 

DE  MOREVTLLE. 

Heard'st  thou  that,  De  Tracy  ? 

DE  TRACY. 

Ay,  and  will  act  on  it !     Sir  Hugh  De  Moreville, 
You've  no  love  for  A'Becket  ? 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

Not  I ;  nor  you,  Sir  Richard. 
BRITO. 
Not  a  jot,  my  Lord !  but  I  do  love  my  King. 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

Say  rather,  yourself — fall  he,  fall  ycu. 

We'll  meet  at  Saltswood,  and  should  you  Fitzurse  see, 


94:  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

Bring  him  with  you.     His  wrongs  demand  revenge. 
Your  hands — 

Here  do  we  swear  to  rid  him  of  this  Priest. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE   THIRD. 
Wood  near  the  Archbishop's  Palace. 

FITZTJRSE  enters. 

Why  bend  my  footsteps  hither,  on  their  way  to  death  ? 
When  last  they  trod  these  shady  woods,  her  voice 
Fell  like  the  music  of  harmonious  streams, 
Taking  their  sinuous  way  through  flowery  brakes. 
Then  spring  was  in  her  bloom,  and  my  glad  heart 
Melodiously  sang,  tuned  to  the  key 
Her  choristers  warbled  in.     Now  all 
In  winter's  icy  garb  is  clad,  and  the  heart's  blood 
Then  flowed  so  warm  and  fast  to  every  note 
Of  suffering — now  is  all  curdled 
By  my  many  wrongs,  and  throbs  but  with  the  hope 
Of  keen  revenge.     Come  on !  come  on ! 
Though  thou  shouldst  strike  a  benefactor's  heart  I 
Come  to  thy  work !  thy  longed-for  work ! 
Be  steady  thou,  my  hand !  no  paltering  now  ! 
Did  he  not  stay  me  on  my  way  to  France, 
And  force  return  to  England  ?     Now  I  will  wait  on  him. 

Enter  DE  MOEEVILLE. 

Well  met,  De  Moreville !    What  meaneth  this,  old  friend  ? 
Your  looks  estranged,  and  on  your  brow  I  read 
The  workings  of  a  troubled  spirit. 


SCENE  III.]  THOMAS    A'lJECKET.  §5 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

The  poor  old  man ! 
A'Becket  is  doomed ! 

FITZURSE. 
The  poor  old  man !     A'Becket  doomed ! 

What  of  that  ? 
Yet  how  so  ?     Why  should  I  feel  for  him  ? 

He  never  felt 
For  me,  in  all  my  sufferings. 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

What  sufferings? 

FITZURSE. 

Sufferings !     The  sharp  pangs  of  the  young  heart — 
The  heart  that  feels  more  keenly  in  one  hour 
Than  age's  in  a  year  !     Remember,  my  dear  Lord, 
You  broached  this  business  first  to  me ; 
Whate'er   had   been   my   thought,  it  knew   no   word — 
no  act. 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

True,  true,  but  thou  art  warm !     I  come  prepared, 
And  with  me  other  of  our  friends,  to  do 
The  deed  our  King  shall  thank  us  for. 

Wilt  thou  be  one  of  us  ? 

FITZURSE. 
I  will ! 

ALBERT  passes  by.~\  Ho !  there ! 

Say  to  your  master 
The  Lord  Fitzurse  craves  his  ear. 

Enter  DE  BROC.]  Well  met,  my  Lord  ; 

Come  not  De  Tracy  and  Sir  Richard  with  you  ? 

To  DE  MOREVILLE.]         They  did  appoint  this  hour. 


96  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

DE  MOREVILLE. 

They  did,  but  should  they  fail ! 

FITZURSE. 

They'll  never  fail !     You're  pale,  De  Moreville ; 
Dost  thou  fear? 

DE    MOREVILLE. 

De  Moreville  fear !     Lo !  where  they  come. 

Enter  DE  TRACY  and  SIR  RICHARD. 

DE  TRACY. 

My  Lords,  are  ye  prepared  ? 

FITZURSE. 

We  but  await  your  coming. 
Who  shall  demand  the  conference  ? 

BEITO. 

Yourself! 

You  have  most  cause  for  hate,  most  reason 
For  the  deed. 

FITZTTRSE. 

True,  true,  I  have  most  reason. 
Revenge  doth  urge  me  on !  while  ye  have 
But  your  King's  dark  hints. 

BRITO. 

Which  unto  me's  enough. 
Enter  ALBERT. 

ALBERT. 

My  Lord  awaits  you,  Sir. 

FITZURSE. 

I  will  attend  011  him. 

Wait  ye  without. 
Exeunt.] 


SCENE  IV.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  97 

SCENE  FOURTH. 
Palace  at  Canterbury — A'Becket's  Room. 

A'BECKET. 

Why  comes  he  back  ?     I  do  mistrust  the  man ! 
How  heavy  is  the  air — it  bodes  a  storm ! 
My  children  all  away !  would  they  were  here ! 
No  news  from  Rome  to-day !  nor  Henry's  Court ! 
'Tis  strange !  'tis  very  strange  !     Things  all  seem 
Out  of  tune — even  my  heart  beats 
In  less  healthful  time  than  is  its  wont ; 
But  I  am  old,  and  cannot  look  in  age 
For  that  which  youth  may  boast.     Lo !  where  he  comes 
With  stealthy  step  ;  why  not  with  manly  tread  ? — 
That  herald  of  an  honest  heart !     I  will  not  fear 
Him,  nor  his  friends,  come  they  in  hosts  ! 
FITZURSE,  bowing. 

Most  Holy  Father ; 
The  King 

A'BECKET. 

He  would  have  known  better  than  to  have  sent 
You  to  me !     Would  you  deceive  me  ?     When  saw  you 
The  King  ?     Dost  thou  not  fear  my  rage  ? 

FITZUESE. 

There's  terror  in  the  whirlwind's,  but  I  see  it  not ; 
Why,  then,  should  I  fear  yours  ? 

A'BECKET. 

Audacious  youth! 

What  would  you,  Sir  ?     Your  errand,  quickly — here,  on 

this  spot — 

And  instantly ;  though  I  had  rather  it  should  be 
From  any  tongue,  than  thine ! 

A  traitor's  voice  so  angers  me  ! 
i 


98  THOMAS  A'HKCKKT.  [ACT  v. 

•  FITZUKSE. 

York,  London,  and  Salisbury,  at  Henry's  feet 
Have  fallen. 

A'BECKET. 

There  let  them  lie !     What's  that  to  me  ? 
Yet  speak. 

FITZURSE. 
The  King  commands  they  be  restored  to  honor. 

A'BECKET. 

And  you  have  borne  this  message  !      What,  should  I  not 
comply? 

FITZUESE. 
His  anger! 

A'BECKET. 
Thunder  is  heard.] 

His  anger !     Hearest  thou  that  blast  ? 
Aside.]     What  bodes  this  wintry  thunder  ? 

FITZURSE. 

I  do. 

A'BECKET. 
On  it,  that  Monarch's  anger  rides, 

Whom  I  alone  do  fear. 

FITZURSE. 

To  Henry,  this  ? 

A'BECKET. 

To  Henry !  ay,  to  Henry ! 
I've  spoken  it  to  Heaven ;  why  not  to  Henry  ? 
FITZURSE,  aside. 

There  is  but  this 

A'BECKET. 

What  sayst  ?     Speak  out !     You  fear 
To  bear  my  answer  to  this  mock  king !     Poor  slave, 


SCENE  IV.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  99 

I  pity  thee !     Oh !  the  worst  master  of  the  slave 
Is — slave ! 

FITZURSE. 
Tome? 

A'BECKET. 

Ay,  Sir !     To  you ! 

Enough ;  leave  me  !     I  am  weary  of  this  ; 
You  have  my  answer ! 

FITZUESE. 

A  slave ! 
A'BECKET. 
That  was  my  word !     Leave  me ! 

FITZURSE,  aside. 

Now  will  I  do  it.     No,  no,  once  more  I'll  see  Lucille ; 
There'll  be  an  hour  for  this.  \Exit. 

Enter  MATILDE  and  LUCILLE. 

A'BECKET. 

My  child !  my  child !  my  children,  both ! 
Thus  e'er  come  Heaven's  rays  in  gloomiest  hours ! 
All  safe !  I  feared  for  you ;  so  wild  the  storm ! 
My  heart  is  softer  than  it  was  of  yore ; 
So  grows  the  oak  with  age. 

MATILDE. 

You  are  troubled,  father ; 
What  new  grief? 

A'BECKET. 

One  I  once  loved  was  here, 
But  oh !  he's  fallen,  like  the  roseate  cloud 
That  sinks  away  in  darkness ;  the  admiration 
Of  my  wondering  eye,  begrimed  and  black  with  sin. 

LUCILLE. 
But  others  come,  as  roseate  as  was  this. 


THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

A'BECKET. 

This  from  thee,  sweet  child  of  sorrow  ?    I  had  not  sought 
From  thy  fair  brow,  philosophy !     But  grief 
Is  a  chastener  to  the  virtuous  he,art, 
From  which,  when  bruised,  as  from  the  rose 
When  crushed,  the  richest  perfume  springs. 
I  must  prepare  for  vespers.    Rest  ye  here. 

Enter  FITZUBSE.]  [Exit  A'BECKET  and  MATILDE. 

LUCILLE. 

Fitzurse ! 


The  same. 
LUCILLE. 
Aside.]    I  must  bear  up.     [  To  FITZUKSE.]    In  name,  but 

not  in  nature. 

What  do  you  here  ?     And  are  they,  then,  your  friends — 
Those  men  with  scowling  brows,  and  lips  which  woo 
The  smiles  they  may  not  wear  ?  for  Nature 
Never  will  be  so  belied,  as  paint 
Upon  the  foul  heart's  face  those  charms  the  virtuous  only 

wear ! 
But  speak ;  what  would  you  ? 

I  fear,  no  good. 
FITZURSE,  kneeling. 
Earth's  best  gift,  your  love  ? 

LUCILLE. 

Arise,  Sir !  leave  me !  lest  my  frown  shall  strike 
Upon  thy  steeled  bosom,  with  such  fanged  darts, 
Thy  soul  shall  flee  their  power,  and  it  shall  fall 
But  on  a  lifeless  corse. 

FITZUESE 

Lucille  I 


SCENE  IV.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  101 

/ 
LUCILLE. 

That  tone ! 

The  wind  thus  sweetly  whispers,  that  doth  bear 
The  gale.     Ah,  me !     Ah,  me ! 
FITZURSE. 

One  word,  and  I'll  no  more : 
Your  love  or  uncle's  life ! 

LUCILLE. 

Villain!     Help!  ho! 
Enter  A'BECKET,  SALISBURY,  BLOIS,  and  others. 

A'BECKET. 

What  means  this,  Sir  ?     How  came  you  here  ? 
Salisbury,  guard  thou  Lucille. 

FITZUESE. 

Recall  thy  word — her  hand  1 
A'BECKET. 
Never !     How  dare  you  this  ? 

FITZUESE. 

This !  ay,  more  ! 
A'BECKET. 

Presumptuous  man !     You  know  the  past ! 
How  dare  you  threaten  ? 

FITZUESE  lays  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

Threaten !  beware,  Sir ! 
Lest  I  more  than  threaten ! 

A'BECKET. 

Audacious  youth ! 

The  wrath  of  Heaven  be  on  you !     Begone,  Sir ! 
Leave  me !  my  hour  has  not  yet  come ! 

FITZUESE  aside. 

But  will  ere  night — at  vespers.     They  are  too  strong  for 
me.  \JExit. 


102  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

BLOIS. 

Villain !     I'll  after  him ! 

A'BECKET. 
Nay,  nay,  my  son ! 

There  is  no  fear  for  us.     The  Church's  shield  will  ward 
All  earthly  blows ;  and  when  Heaven's  falls, 
It  will,  whate'er  our  heed. 

Let's  on  to  vespers. 

My  daughters,  come  with  me ;  there's  something 
Sacred  in  a  virgin's  charms,  since  the  first  birth 
Of  time.     So  sacred,  he  whose  warrior 
I  am  enrolled,  called  one  His  mother.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  FIFTH. 
Vespers — The  Chapel. 

Enter  A'BECKET,   SALISBURY,  BLOIS,   MATILDE,   LUCILLE, 
and  attendants. 

BLOIS. 

Close  ye  the  portals !  spare  nor  bolt  nor  bar ! 
A'BECKET. 

Nay,  nay,  my  son ! 
BLOIS. 

Oh,  Father !  be  advised  this  once ! 
Villany  lurks  around !     No  shrine  so  sacred 
But  it  will  pollute  with  its  foul  breath. 

MATILDE. 

Oh,  Father !  hear  my  prayer ! 

LUCILLE. 

And  mine !     Upon  my  knees, 
Dear  Father,  grant  me  but  this  ?     Oh,  be  advised ! 


SCENE   V.]  THOMAS    A'fiECKET.  103 

A'BECKET. 

Fear  not,  my  children !     To  your  love  I  would  yield, 
"  But  'tis  not  meet  that  we  should  fortify 
God's  temple,  like  a  castle." 

We  need  no  gates, 

No  bulwarks,  and  no  arms !     If  He  wills  we  shall  live, 
We  will  not  die — if  die,  'tis  but  for  once ! 
And  who  would  live,  when  by  his  Father  called 
Unto  that  home,  so  rich  hi  every  joy  ? 
Hark  to  the  vesper  hymn !     How  like 
A  voice  from  Heaven  it  comes ! 

My  blessings  be  with  you ! 
Low  music — they  kneel.] 

He  ascends  the  steps  of  the  High  Altar.    Enter  the  five 
conspirators  and  twelve  companions. 

DE  BEOC. 
Where  is  the  traitor,  Thomas  A'Becket  ? 

JVo  answer]  Where  is  the  Archbishop  ? 

A'BECKET,  turning  round. 
"  Here  am  I,  no  traitor,  but  a  priest, 
Ready  to  suffer  in  the  name  of  Him 
Who  redeemed  me."     But  what  do  ye  here  in  arms  ? 

DE  BKOC. 

Take  off  the  censures  from  the  Prelates, 
Or  instant  death ! 

A'BECKET. 

Never !  so  help  me  Heaven ! 

Put  up  your  swords  !     Who  dares  insult  his  God  ? 
Fitzurse,  stand  back !  I  have  done  you  many  a  kindness ; 
Touch  me  not !  by  Heaven's  arm  alone  I'll  fall, 
Never  by  thine  !     Think  ye  that  I  fear  you  ? 


104  THOMAS    A'liECKET.  [ACT  V. 

Kneel  at  this  altar,  which  ye  have  so  foul'd, 

Lest  that  your  souls  alone  may  cleanse  these  stains, 

And  make  atonement  for  this  sacrilege. 

FTTZUESE. 

Fly  then!  oh,  fly!     My  oath!  my  oath! 

A'BECKET. 

No,  never! 
I  am  prepared  to  die. 

DE  BROC,  striking  at  him. 

Fly!  or  you  are  dead! 
Or  else  be  borne,  a  prisoner,  to  the  King ! 
FITZUESE  strikes  him. 

LUCILLE. 

Hold !  what,  thou,  Fitzurse ! 

FITZTJESE. 

There — die ! 

The  blow  glances  from  A'BECKET  on  LUCILLE,  who  has 
rushed  to  shield  him,  as  she  exclaims — 

Fitzurse ! 

FITZUESE. 
What  have  I  done  ? 

A'BECKET  supports  her  as  she  falls,  saying  : 

Stand  off"!     What  hast  thou  done  ? 
My  child !  my  child !  earth  was  not  dear  to  thee. 
Thus  will  we  unto  Heaven.  [Still  supporting  her. 

Unto  the  attendants.] 

My  children,  sheathe  your  swords, 
Fitzurse,  sheathe  thine,  and  let  these  do  the  deed  ! 
Thy  mother  drank  my  heart's  life  in  our  tender  youth  ; 
There  is  none  left  for  thee.     Fair  Rosamond 
Had  been  my  bride ;  an  honored,  virgin  bride, 


SCENE  >.]  THOMAS    A'BECKET.  105 

Had  not  thy  father,  Henry,  our  King,  won  her 
From  her  truth,  and  steeped  her  in  dishonor. 

FITZUBSE. 
Fair  Rosamond  my  mother !  [Looking  at  his  sword. 

A'BECKET. 
Alas !  it  is  too  true. 

FITZUESE,  to  his  sword. 

Come !  do  thy  work ! 

Thou  wert  his  gift  who  gave  me  life ;  that  gone 
With  her  fair  fame — my  unknown  mother's, 
Whom  I  have  worshipped  as  a  saint  in  heaven, 
I  sheathe  thee  in  my  heart !  Her  life's  blood  on  thy  blade ; 
With  thee  I  wed,  Lucille ! 

Stabs  himself  and  falls  at  LUCILLE'S/C^.] 

Now  are  we  one !         [Dies. 

A'BECKET. 

Oh!  that  my  loved  Liege,  Henry,  should  have  known 
This  hour !      How  do  youth's  sins  track  man  unto  the 

grave ! 

Turning  to  Cons2)irators.) 

Hell  curse  ye,  Sirs,  who  have  done  this  foul  deed ; 
And  cast  ye  to  dishonor !  while,  with  repentant  ashes 
On  his  head — bare-footed,  scourges  on  his  back — 
He'll  walk,  and  prostrate  lie  before  the  shrine 
Of  him  who  now  doth  fall  but  to  be  canonized ; 
And  when  his  hour  shall  come ;  (but  this,  I  charge  you, 
Under  pain  of  Saint  A'Becket's  ire, 
Ne'er  to  disclose  till  then  !) 

His  queen,  vile  Eleanor, 

Inciting  foes  !  for  she  will  ne'er  forgive  his  frailties ! 
His  realm  disjoined  !     Sons  disobedient ! 
In  rebellion,  all ;  with  none  but  hired  menials 
Near  his  infected  couch,  this  mighty  monarch 


106  THOMAS  A'BECKET.  [ACT  v. 

In  vile  rags  shall  die !     No  regal  state,  no  honor,  and  no 

love ! — 

Not  e'en  the  love  of  one  poor  heart,  for  him 
Whose  every  love  was  lust,  and  love  of  self! — 
Yet,  had  I  lived,  I  would  have  saved  him 
From  this  last  dishonor. 

Come,  murder,  have  thy  way  !     My  life  fast  ebbs. 
To  God,  St.  Mary,  and  the  Saints  who  are 
The  patrons  of  the  Church,  and  to  St.  Denis, 
I  do  commend  myself  and  the  Church's  cause. 
You've  done  your  worst ! 

Ye  Norman  Lords,  here  dies  the  Anglo-Saxons'  hope  ; 
To  rise  hereafter  ih  a  far  Western  land, 
Whence  like  the  sun,  with  Freedom's  glorious  rays, 
It  shall  illume  the  Wide,  Wide  World ! 

They  kneel  around.]  \-ffe  dies. 


FINIS, 


CANONICUS. 


CANONICUS : 

A  TKAGEDY,   IN   FIVE  ACTS. 


PERSONS    OF    THE    DRAMA. 

CANONICUB,  Chief  of  the  Narragansetts. 

MASSASSOIT,  Chief  of  the  Mohegans. 

SAMOSET,  Chief  of  the  Wharupanoags. 

HOBOCOMOC,  Chief  of  the  Nansetts. 

WOPOWOAG,  Chief. 

SASACUS,  Chief  of  the  Pequods. 

SAMOSACUS,  Son  of  Canonicus. 

MTJNTUMO,  Son  of  Massassoit. 

MOINA,  Niece  of  Canonicus. 

NYAISTA,  Daughter  of  Sasacus. 

JONES,  a  Quaker. 

CARVER  BRADFORD,  1 

WILLIAM  STANDISH,  I 

HENRY  CARVER,  Pilgrims. 

MARY  ALDEN, 

Scene— PLYMOUTH  ROCK,  etc.,  NEIGHBORING  FORESTS— A.D.  1620. 


CANONICUS. 


ACT  L 

SCENE  FIBST. 
Indian  Council  Fire — Indians  seated  around  it. 

MASSASSOIT. 

The  moon  pales  in  the  west,  as  feeble  with  his  year's 
wanderings  and  journeyings,  the  sun  leaves  his  tent  in 
the  east.  The  brook's  murmur  is  hushed,  and  in  its 
face  the  young  fawns  of  our  tribe  see  their  beauty 
decked  in  the  diamond  waters.  The  Ice-spirit  is  abroad, 
and  the  Snow-king  soon  will  come  and  cast  his  white 
mantle  over  all.  Brothers,  it  behooves  me,  old  in  years 
and  in  service,  to  see  that  our  homes  be  made  secure,  now 
that  Nature's  war-shout  is  heard  and  that  our  young  war 
riors  find  the  bear,  the  elk,  and  the  deer;  while  our  squaws 
seek  the  eels,  fish,  and  clams.  The  corn  is  in  the  husk — 
have  it  gathered ! 

SAMOSET. 

Well  spoken,  Great  Chief  of  the  Mohegans;  winter's 
whisperings  I  hear.  Hark,  a  step,  firm  and  strong.  Lay 
ye  low.  [They  put  their  ears  to  the  ground.'] 

MASSASSOIT. 

It  is  a  great  warrior  comes.  There  is  blood  of  foes  fills 
the  air !  Ha !  the  tramp  of  Canonicus,  chief  of  the  Nar- 
ragansetts.  [CANONICUS  enters.]  Great  Brother,  our  coun 
cil  fire,  as  our  hearts,  languished  you  away,  but  now  its 

(9) 


1 0  CANONICUS.  [ACT  i. 

flames  will  brighten,  as  shall  our  spirits.  Thirty  tribes  by 
their  bravest  sons  here  are  met.  They  bring  tales  of  great 
wrongs  from  Acanadas — creeping  snakes,  who  have  stolen 
our  hunting-grounds  and  driven  off  our  game.  Stolen 
our  corn,  we  away,  and  even  broken  faith  after  all  their 
promises. 

CANONICUS. 

Is  it  so?  Canonicus  knows  no  fear.  Canonicus  has 
warriors.  Aye,  fifteen  hundred  braves.  They  have  stout 
arms  and  fierce  hearts.  Where  the  Great  Spirit  guides, 
they  will  go  to  victory  or  death.  Let  us  march,  each  with 
his  stoutest  youths.  The  forest  saplings  we  shall  need — 
withy  and  tough  as  the  green  tree  whence  came  our  bows. 
Let  our  arrows  be  of  the  white-oak,  stony-headed,  hard 
like  our  hearts  to  our  foes;  firm  fixed  as  our  hearts  to  our 
friends.  They  have  pale-faces  with  them,  whose  winged 
arrows,  sightless  as  the  wind,  kill  ere  their  bow's  twang 
is  heard.  In  an  ambush  we  must  lay,  when  the  camp- 
fire  is  found,  and  ere  the  break  of  day  leave  none  to 
tell  the  tale.  Poison  waters  their  drink;  their  braves 
sleep  like  turtles  in  winter. 

SAMOSET. 

'Tis  well  spoken,  great  chief.  The  Whampanoags  love 
not  the  pale  -faces.  Their  winged  canoes,  twenty  moons 
gone,  stole  our  bravest  youths.  One  Samosacus,  your  son, 
would  have  been  chief  of  your  tribe.  But  he  is  gone  1 

CANONICUS. 

Aye,  my  son,  my  son.  Canonicus  may  not  weep,  ex 
cept  they  be  tears  of  blood.  What  now  sees  my  dim  eye 
on  the  great  waters  ?  A  dancing  wave !  or  a  gull !  So 
long  have  I  gazed  there  with  my  heart's  eyes  for  him,  in 
vain,  in  vain, — Canouicus  thinks  each  ripple  may  be  his 
son. 


SCENE    I.]  CANONICUS.  11 

MASSASSOIT. 

Tis  a  winged  canoe;  like  a  snow-flake  it  shows,  then 
falls  and  fades  away — anon  and  anon. 

CANONICUS. 

Ha!  Moina  comes.  [MoiNA  enters.]  Moina,  my  fair 
child !  Daughter  of  the  spray-spirit  of  Amoskeag.  What 
tale  hast  thou  for  thy  loved  one's  father's  ear  ? 

MOINA. 

As  the  maiden  handmaid  of  the  sun  sank  to  slumber 
with  her  lord,  Moina  sat  by  the  sea-shore,  far  out  on  yon 
high  rock,  when  she  spied  a  sparkling  wave  or  a  ripple  on 
the  sea,  or  snow-gull's  feather  as  she  thought;  when  lo,  a 
winged  canoe;  aye,  many  wings  she  bears,  e'en  like  a 
flock  of  birds  darkening  thereabouts  the  air;  and  on  its 
decks  warriors  strong,  all  shining  in  the  moonbeams,  com 
ing  fast  toward  the  shore. 

CANONICTTS. 

And  what  thy  thought,  my  child  ?  7 

MOINA. 

Samosacus  sailed  in  such.  Samosacus  may  be  there. 
Samosacus  may  return. 

CANONICUS. 

He  will,  my  brave  girl.  You  yet  shah1  be  his  bride. 
Let  Canonicus  gaze  on  the  sea.  [Advancing  to  shore.]  A 
dancing  feather,  it  bounds  before  the  winds  of  the  rising 
sun.  Now  it  nears.  It  has  many  wings,  and  warriors 
crowd  its  decks;  'tis  the  pale-faced  friends  of  our  foes. 
Quench  these  flames,  and  let  six  young  braves  be  as  the 
wolf  pursuing  the  timid  deer;  all-seeing,  yet  unseen. 
Each  and  all  then  to  their  wigwams;  and  at  dawn,  at  Ma- 


12  CAXONICUS.  [ACT  i. 

nomet  we  will  hear  of  their  night's  watchings,  and  then 
move  on  our  foes,  near  Kennebec's  fierce  waters.  [Exeunt. 

[Pilgrims'  boats  land.    CABVEK,  BRADFORD,  WINSLOW,  STAN- 
DISH,  and  Pilgrims.'] 

STANDISH. 

Ha !  an  Indian  camping-ground.  Be  wary,  men.  They 
may  be  friends.  If  so,  'tis  well;  if  foes,  we  must  meet 
them  bravely;  we  must  not  fail.  Should  we,  our  cause  is 
lost,  our  colony  at  an  end. 

CARVER. 

Captain,  to  you,  as  military  leader,  a  man  of  large  ex 
perience,  we  must  listen  and  obey.  While  I  am  the  Gov 
ernor  chosen  of  our  chosen  few — in  all  101,  with  forty- 
one  men  only,  all  loyal  subjects  of  our  Sovereign  James 

.     "  We  have  undertaken  for  the  glory  of  God,  and 

advancement  of  the  Christian  faith,  to  plant  the  first 
colony  in  the  northern  part  of  Virginia,  and  do  covenant 
and  combine  ourselves  together  into  a  civil  body  politic, 
for  our  better  order  and  preservation,  and  by  virtue  here 
of  shall  enact,  constitute,  and  frame  such  just  and  equal 
laws,  as  shah1  be  thought  most  convenient  for  the  general 
good  of  the  colony,  due  precaution  being  taken."  I  would 
counsel  that  we  rear  our  standard  here  upon  this  rock, 
where  now  a  hospitable  fire  greets  us  [Fires  relume]  after 
our  five  months'  weary  and  chill  voyage — a  happy  augury. 

BRADFORD. 

Be  it  so !     And  let  us  in  grateful  remembrance  of  kind 
friends,  far  away,  give  it  the  name  of  Plymouth,  and  in 
voke  God's  blessing  on  our  cause. 
[They  rear    the  standard,  and  all  kneel  around  in  silent 

prayer.     The  Indians  (6)  steal  around,  and  seeing  them 

at  their  devotions,  retire  quietly  J] 


SCENE   I.]  CANONICUJ8.  13 

CAKVEE  [rising]. 

Here,  on  this  ice-clad  rock,  we  do  devote  our  hearts, 
our  souls,  our  bodies,  to  God's  cause;  to  the  advancement 
of  the  Christian  faith  and  universal  freedom. 

Hark,  an  Indian  whoop !  and  here  they  come. 

MASSASSOIT  [advancing]. 

Welcome,  pale  -  faces  —  few  in  number;  the  Indian 
hordes,  mighty  in  strength  and  power,  would  be  your 
friends. 

CARVER. 

Thanks,  brave  chieftain.  We  would  find  you  friends. 
We  come  as  such.  We  bring  you  medicine  from  the 
Great  Spirit,  and  gifts  of  lasting  good  to  all.  For  many 
moons  upon  the  deep,  our  corn,  our  meat  is  scanty.  We 
would  have  these.  Beads  for  your  wampums  and  trin 
kets  we  will  give. 

MASSASSOIT. 

Thanks,  Great  Chief;  though  we  need  them  not,  yet 
our  young  braves  and  maidens  gladden  in  them.  Freely 
will  we  give  you  of  what  we  have  in  store.  Fierce  winds 
are  now  at  hand,  and  snow-flakes  thicker  than  the  sands 
of  the  shore  are  upon  us.  Rear  your  wigwams;  Massas- 
soit  will  send  you  aid,  and  in  the  meantime  seek  his 
friends.  [Indians  exeunt. 

STANDISH. 

He  boasts  of  his  power.  Let  him  not  seek  to  take  ad 
vantage,  for  we  have  that  here  [his  gun]  shall  strike  such 
terror  in  their  hearts,  that  they  shall  freely  give  all  that 
we  ask. 

CARVER. 

Captain,  we  come  in  the  name  of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 
Our  best  reliance  is  on  the  guidance  of  our  God.  Al- 


14  CANONICUS.  [ACT  i. 

ready  this  friendly  Indian,  coming  as  he  does,  shows  his 
love.     Cast  not  away  this  favor  by  unworthy  acts. 

STANDISH. 

Governor,  unworthy  acts  to  me,  Miles  Standish,  your 
Captain Nay,  nay;  excuse  a  soldier,  one  who  can 
not  forget  his  bluntness. 

OABVEB. 

Miles  Standish,  you  are  our  Captain.  Your  trade  were 
best  forgotten  until  a  foe  appears.  I  am  your  Governor, 
selected  by  our  people.  Let  no  testiness  disturb  our  har 
mony  here  at  the  outset.  Foes  enough  we  will  have.  We 
must  be  true  unto  ourselves.  Your  hand,  sir,  here  be 
fore  our  assembled  company.  We  are  friends. 

STANDISH. 

In  heart  and  hand !  The  day  wears,  and  the  clouds 
thicken;  let  us  haste  and  prepare  our  homes.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE   SECOND. 

Indian  Camping-Ground  at  Manomet. 

CANONICUS. 

Pale-faces  at  our  wigwams'  doors.  Pale-faces  at  our 
Council  fires.  Pale-faces  friends.  So  says  Massassoit. 
Old  chief,  age  dims  thine  eye;  thy  heart  was  ever  gen 
tle;  too  gentle  for  the  chief  of  the  great  Mohegans.  Can- 
onicus  sees  these  pale-faces,  as  the  evil  spirits  who  haunt 
our  swamps  at  nightfall.  "  Will-o'-the-wisps/'  their 
song  so  musical,  yet  so  fatal — the  arrow  may  not  harm 
them;  they  track  our  steps,  tho' never  so  silent  they  be, 


SCENE    II.]  CANONICUS.  15 

but  there  is  poison  in  their  breath  to  the  brave  sons  of  the 
forest,  and  death  in  their  stealthy  tread.     I'll  none  of  the 

pale-faces — they  are  like  these 

Samosacus,  my  son,  speared  tho  eel  and  dragged  the 
oyster  and  clam  from  his  soft  bed,  and  bore  it  to  their 
winged  canoe,  now  twenty  moons  gone;  and  they  sailed 
far  away  with  him.  Did  they  but  bear  him  back,  I 
would  not  be  their  foe — though  never  their  friend.  [Moi- 
NA  enters.]  Moina,  my  fair  girl.  Hast  thou  news  ?  What 
says  Massassoit? 

MOINA. 

He  is  not  here !  Samosacus  has  not  come;  I  sought 
the  medicine-man  of  our  tribe,  and  he  bids  me  dream  six 
moons  more  of  love  and  he  will  come.  Samosacus,  my 
husband. 

CANONICUS. 

Says  he  thus  much  ?  It  is  well.  Go  and  dream.  My 
heart  is  firm.  Canonicus  never  faltered.  Massassoit 
may  be  their  friend.  Canonicus  will  know  them  not.  Our 
young  braves  have  gone  to  seek  the  Acanadas.  Canoni 
cus  would  go,  but  there  is  now  greater  danger  nearer 
home.  [HoBocoMoc  enters.']  Hobocomoc,  you  saw  their 
camp;  what  of  them  ? 

HOBOCOMOC. 

Men  of  peace,  by  their  guise — save  some  few.  Men  of 
prayer  by  their  acts — more  like  squaws.  They  build  them 
wigwams — will  prove  their  graves.  They  build  them  and 
then  will  go  to  their  graves.  So  fast  they  die. 

CANONICUS. 

What  needs  we  should  fear.  The  Great  Spirit  watches 
over  us.  Their  warriors  are  how  many  ? 

HOBOCOMOC. 

As  the  stars  seen  at  noonday ! 


16  CANONICUS.  [ACT  i. 

CANONICUS. 

So  few !     Have  they  food  ?    Have  they  shelter  ? 

HOBOCOMOC. 
But  scanty  at  the  best — but  slight  for  these  wild  storms. 

CANONICUS. 

Bear  them  corn  and  deer's  meat  in  plenty.  Take  fifty 
braves;  tell  them  Canonicus  will  not  be  their  friend;  but 
he  would  feed  even  a  starving  foe — that  our  Great  Spirit 
teaches  this. 

MASSASSOIT  [enters]. 

Great  Chief  of  the  Narragansetts,  the  pale-faces  crave 
thy  friendship ! 

CANONICUS. 

Does  the  proud  antlered  monarch  of  the  herd  seek  the 
lair  of  the  wolf?  Canonicus  sent  Samosacus,  bis  well- 
beloved  son,  with  a  gift  to  the  winged  canoe,  and  they 
bore  him  away.  Canonicus  learns  their  wants,  and  sends 
his  braves  with  gifts  of  meat  and  corn.  Canonicus  will 
watch  over  them;  an  offended  father,  but  he  will  be  their 
friend.  They  are  like  himself;  they  are  flesh  and  blood, 
the  Great  Spirit  made  all;  they  shall  not  suffer  for  want 
of  shelter,  of  food,  be  they  not  our  foes.  Canonicus  has 
spoken.  But  hark  1  the  shouts  of  our  returning  braves. 
[CANONICUS  and  MASSASSOIT  seated  on  couch  of  skins.  Indian 

Braves  enter  with  trophies  of  Victory.'] 

WOPOWOAG. 

The  Acanadas  sleep.  More  in  number  than  the  suns  of 
many  years,  they  bite  the  dust.  Their  bones  bleach  the 
plains.  Their  blood  colors  the  waters  of  the  Kennebec, 
and  their  scalps  are  at  thy  feet,  Great  Chief  of  the  Nar- 
ragansetts.  [Laying  down  trophies.] 


SCENE    II."]  CAXONICU8.  17 

CANONICUS. 

Pale-faces  were  with  them  ? 

WOPOWOAO. 

Are  with  them,  great  chief.  Their  iron  bows  are  ours. 
They  lie  with  our  crafty  foes. 

CANONICUS. 

You  heard  no  tales — no  further  tales  of  gatherings  in 
the  forests — of  the  coming  of  fresh  foes  ? 

WOPOWOAG. 

We  have  left  scarce  enough  to  bury  those  we  met. 
Years  must  come  ere  they  will  war  against  the  salt-waves' 
sons. 

CANONICUS. 
Were  all  slain  ? 

WOPOWOAG. 

All,  save  one,  Canonicus.  He  called  upon  your  name 
in  the  fight;  the  hatchet  would  have  finished  the  winged 
arrow's  work;  but  the  Spirit  in  thy  name  stayed  the  blow. 
He  is  here. 

CANONICUS. 

Bring  the  pale-face  before  me !  [  White  man  brought  in.] 
Pale-face,  though  of  our  foes,  Canonicus  revenges  not 
himself  upon  the  vanquished.  Speak — thy  tale. 

JONES. 

A  sailor,  with  one  Merton,  we  landed  on  these  shores 
twenty  months  past.  We  sought  for  food.  An  Indian 
Chief  came  in  a  bark  canoe. 

CANONICUS. 
My  son.     He  lives. 


18  CANONICUS.  [ACT  r. 

JONES. 

He  was  welcomed  upon  our  deck.  His  fish  and  clams 
were  well  paid  for;  he  was  kindly  used — a  gale  came  up 
and  we  were  driven  off  to  sea,  and  steered  away  for  Eng 
land.  Samosacus  was  the  guest  of  lords  and  kings.  He 
slept  at  Windsor,  and  was  made  rich  in  jewels  and  in 
gold.  He  is  feted  and  feasted. 

CANONICUS. 

What  of  that  ?  That  gives  him  not  back  to  Canonicus 
— that  brings  him  not  to  the  arms  of  M;ina.  You  speak 
of  your  king — who  is  he '?  The  pale-faces  tell  me  he 
wears  a  crown — is  seated  on  a  golden  throne — has  rich  at 
tendants,  glittering  all  in  gems,  and  warriors  at  command. 
That  at  every  step  ho  is  surrounded  by  an  obsequious 
crew,  who  fawn  if  he  but  smiles,  faint  if  he  frowns.  Is 
this  to  be  a  king  ? 

Canonicus  would  have  none  of  it.  We,  who  are  kings, 
the  proudest  monarchs  that  rule  on  earth,  have  for  our 
proud  throne,  our  Great  Spirit's  footstool,  one  step  alone 
below  Him.  His  star-gemmed  heavens  our  canopy — the 
untrammelled  sons  of  the  forests  our  friends,  our  braves. 
We  have  no  fear  for  them,  they  have  our  love,  our  trust; 
and  we  have  theirs. 

But  what  more  of  Samosacus  ?  You  say  he  is  feted  and 
feasted.  Can  they  give  him  more  than  we  ?  All  the  game 
of  the  forests,  of  the  streams,  is  at  our  feasts.  The  limpid 
waters  ever  sparkling,  as  the  Great  Spirit  made  them  our 
drink,  ever  freshening  and  pure.  Can  they  give  him  more 
than  this  ?  But  where  is  Samosacus  ? 
JONES. 

He  bade  me  say:  Should  I  return  to  his  native  land, 
that  on  the  sixth  moon  from  this  he  would  be  with  his 
friends — that  so  England's  great  chief  had  promised. 


SCENE    I.]  CANONICUS.  19 

CANONICUS. 

Such  was  my  dream.  So  spake  Syosset,  our  Medicine 
Chief — and  so  Moina  dreams.  Release  your  captive, 
braves.  He  is  our  friend  from  this — his  home  with  us — 
a  bride,  fairest  of  our  daughters,  shall  be  the  reward  for 
the  great  news  he  bears  us.  Now  to  the  Great  Spirit  be 
our  thanks  upraised.  [Indian  ceremony,,  and  curtain  falls. 

END   OF  ACT  I. 


ACT   H. 

SCENE  FIKST. 

Indians  Assembled  in  Council. 

CANONICUS  and  Braves  of  the  Narragansetts — SAMOSET  and 
Braves  of  the  Whampanoags. 

CANONICUS. 

What  news,  now,  of  these  pale-faces  ?  "What  more  do 
they  ?  Their  wigwams  built  against  the  winter's  blast, 
the  red  man's  meat  and  corn  their  food.  Is  it  not  so  ? 

SAMOSET  [Chief  of  Whampanoags]. 
Brother,  it  is  so.  And  still  they  die  like  the  leaves  from 
the  trees. 

CANONICUS. 

Have  they  no  medicine-men  ?  Bid  Syosset  go  to  them; 
he  the  most  skilled  of  our  tribe;  and,  Samoset,  let  yours 
go  too.  I  doubt  he  of  Massassoit  is  already  there. 


20  CANONICTJS.  [ACT  IT. 

SAMOSET. 

Even  so — and  he  himself  has  gone  together  with  some 
fifty  braves  to  render  aid. 

CANONICUS. 

Samoset,  Chief  of  the  Whampanoags.  I  like  not  this. 
The  pale-face  weak,  our  friend;  strong,  were  our  foe. 

SAMOSET. 

We  meet  them  at  the  full  sun  to-day.  I  bade  them  wel 
come — as  yet,  find  them  friends?  Come  with  me,  Great 
Chief  of  the  Narragansetts. 

CANONICUS. 

Canonicus  will  not  go  Canonicus  has  spoken.  They 
shall  not  starve.  He  will  not  be  their  friend.  Canonicus 
is  the  red  man's  friend.  [Exit  CANONICUS  and  Braves. 

SAMOSET. 

They  meet  at  the  full  moon.  Braves,  we  must  be  with 
them.  [Exeunt, 


SCENE   SECOND. 

Forest  and  Sea  view. — Moonlight. 

Whites  march  in  on  one  side  in  great  state.     Indians  same  on 
other  side. 

CABVEE  [advances}. 

Great  King  of  the  Mohegans,  Massassoit,  in  the  depths 
of  winter,  cast  upon  your  shores,  you  were  our  friend, 
and  so  with  great  Samoset  of  the  Whampanoags.  You 
gave  us  welcome,  gave  us  shelter,  gave  us  food.  Now  in 


S:  EXE    II.]  CANONICUS.  21 

the  first  burst  of  spring,  when  the  earth  is  full  of  prom 
ise  and  of  hope,  we  would  enter  into  a  league  of  friend 
ship  which  shall  bind  us  all  more  firmly  together.  We 
come  to  bring  him  word,  from  our  Great  Spirit,  the 
Father  of  us  all,  to  teach  the  red  man  our  arts;  arts  that 
shall  make  him  happy,  make  him  rich. 

We  ask  but  peace  and  unity,  and  liberty  to  worship 
God  and  live  after  our  own  simple  ways. 

MASSASSOIT. 

Great  Chief  of  the  Pale-faces,  we  have  heard.  The 
Great  Spirit  bids  us  give  the  pale-faces  welcome — be  his 
friends.  They  may  share  our  hunting-grounds  and  our 
shores.  The  forests  furnish  fuel,  and  the  clear  streams 
purest  waters. 

CAKVER. 

Red  brother,  this  is  true,  from  you  and  many  others; 
but  there  are  foes.  Some  open  and  avowed,  some  stealthy 
as  the  wolf.  Some  creeping  like  the  snake.  Massassoit 
and  Samoset  we  know  for  friends.  But  who  else  have  we 
as  such? 

MASSASSOIT. 

Show  the  sign  that  shall  bind,  and  we  will  soon  find 
our  friends.  Massassoit  sets  his  seal  to  it. 

CAKVER  [unrolling  parchment]. 

Here's  our  bond,  signed  and  sealed.  Fix  your  marks, 
'tis  all  we  ask. 

MASSASSOIT  [lancing  his  arm]. 

Thus  I  make  it — with  my  blood — thus  with  my  life. 

SAMOSET. 

And  so  does  Samoset !  Brother  chieftains — friends  to 
the  pale-faces — our  great  king  binds  us  all — so  let  each 
bind  his  tribe.  [Many  chiefs  sign.~\ 


22  CANONICUS.  [ACT  n. 

MASSASSOIT. 

Now  let  this  be  borne  to  tlie  Chief  of  the  Peconics.  He 
sent  threats  to  our  pale-faced  friends — bid  him  attend  us 
here.  Summon  the  Great  Chief  of  the  Narragansetts; 
him  of  the  strong  will  and  the  stout  arm :  Great  Canoni- 
cus.  [Exit  two  Braves. 

CAKVER. 

"Well  spoken,  and  better  done,  noble  friend.  May  this 
day  be  but  as  that  of  many  suns  to  come;  and  the  pale 
face  and  red  man  be  but  one.  Thinkest  thou  Canoni- 
cus  will  come  ?  Him  we  honor,  him  we  would  have  our 
friend.  He  has  nobly  done. 

MASSASSOIT. 

A  red  man's  tread  I  hear  far  down  in  the  vale,  but  'tis 
faint  and  faltering.  Not  Canonicus,  I  know.  His  step  is 
fixed  and  firm;  now  again,  from  the  forest  it  comes — 'tis 
Peconic  your  foe,  then  our  foe — like  a  low-born  dog,  a 
cur,  he  steals  along.  [Chiefs  escort  PECONIC — painted  allies 
color. ,] 

You  of  the  ashen  face,  of  the  Peconics,  we  bid  you 
here.  "We  the  friends  of  the  pale-face,  we  bid  you  here, 
their  foe.  Few  words  may  we  speak.  You  their  friend, 
else  our  foe.  Such,  soon  the  singing  birds  of  winter 
were  more  in  number  than  thy  tribe  ! 

PECONIC. 

Great  king,  such  thy  will,  such  must  be  ours.  Massas- 
soit  has  the  heart  of  all.  You  have  my  hand.  [Signs  the 
treaty.} 

MASSASSOIT. 

"Where  now  is  our  brother,  Great  Canonicus  ?  Ha,  I 
hear  his  step  coming  hither,  it  shakes  the  earth !  [CAN 
ONICUS  enters.] 


SCENE  rr.]  CAKONICUS.  23 

CANONICUS  [looking  round]. 
He  is  here ! 

MASSASSOIT. 

It  is  well ! 

CANONICUS. 

Who  are  these  ?  Our  friends  ?  Friends  at  the  feast, 
friends  at  the  fight !  braves,  all.  What  do  ye  here  ?  Sell 
yourselves  to  the  pale-faces  ?  What  need  of  bonds  or  of 
your  hands?  The  pale-face,  the  red  man's  friend;  the 
red  man  never  could  be  his  foe.  Room  enough  for  all; 
food  enough  for  all,  while  the  forest  gives  its  beasts,  and 
their  branches  its  birds — while  the  sea-shore  gives  its 
shell-fish,  and  its  waters  its  fins !  The  Great  Spirit  or 
dains  this.  Who  dare  disobey  ? 

MASSASSOIT. 

Thy  hand  then  to  this. 

CANONICUS. 

The  Chief  of  the  Narragansetts  has  given  his  word — 
there  needs  no  hand — though  the  pale-face  would  it. 
Massassoit  knows  it  needs  it  not. 

CAEVEB. 
We  would  have  some  sign. 

CANONICUS. 

Chief  of  the  Pale-faces:  when  the  pale-faces  first  came 
to  our  shore,  and  would  have  shelter,  who  or  what  bade 
Canonicus  build  them  wigwams  ?  who  or  what  bade  Can- 
onicus  send  them  corn  and  meats?  who  or  what  bade 
Canonicus  forget  that  the  pale  -  faces  stole  his  son  ? 
The  same  Spirit  will  teach  him  to  be  their  friends  until 
they  are  his  people's  foe — to  forget  his  private  wrongs 
while  they  are  friends  to  his. 


21  CANONICUS.  [ACT  n. 

CARVER. 

We  have  given.  We  would  have  some  pledge,  somo 
sign. 

CANONICUS. 

It  is  here.  You  know  me  as  a  friend.  Read  me  in 
this,  when  as  a  foe.  [Takes  from  an  Indian  a  bundle  of  ar 
rows,  wrapped  in  a  rattlesnake  skin,  and  hands  it  to  STANDISH. 
Says  :]  Twenty  rattles  had  it  living — a  hundred  deaths  was 
in  each.  My  heel  crushed  its  head — so  my  arrows  shall 
hearts  of  foes. 

CAEVER. 

Boasting  chief,  we  fear  you  not.  [BRADFORD  whispers 
to  STANDISH,  who  fills  skin  with  powder,  privately.] 

MASSASSOIT. 

Brave  son,  we  know  you  well !  Canonicus  was  ever  as 
the  sun.  True  as  that !  we  would  not  this  ! 

CANONICUS. 

Great  Father,  old  in  years.  Your  words  are  peace; 
strong  in  arm.  Your  son  so  wills  it.  Peace  kept,  he  will 
keep  it.  Canonicus  has  spoken ! 

BRADFORD  [returning  skin]. 
Brave  chief,  we  return  thy  skin !  thy  gift ! 

CANONICUS. 

The  red  man  knows  it  not — 'tis  not  so  he  treats  his 
friends. 

BRADFORD. 

The  white  man's  power  is  now  in  this  skin. 

CANONICUS  [throwing  it  inflames]. 
To  the  flames  then  be  it  given.     So  he  forgets  the  pale- 


SCENE    I.]  CANONICUS.  25 

face's  wrong.  [  The  poivder  flashes  and  is  gone.]  So  fades 
away  on  the  wind  thy  power.  See,  the  red  man's  shafts 
are.  still  good.  [Pointing  to  arrows.']  Thou  hast  my  sign. 


END  OF  ACT  IL 


ACT  nx 

SCENE  FIKST.    . 
Canonicus  and  Braves  assembled. — Forest  Scene. 

CANONICUS. 

Nineteen  moons  gone,  Samosacus  not  returned.  Faith 
less  pale-faces.  Moina's  heavy  heart  gives  Canonicus  a 
heavy  hand.  Still  our  white  brother  of  our  wigwam  bids 
Ler  hope.  [MoiNA  enters.] 

Moina,  my  fond  child,  sweeter  thy  voice  to  my  heart 
than  the  song  of  singing  birds  of  spring.  Soft  as  the 
murmur  of  the  evening  winds  fall  thy  steps  on  my  ear. 
What  is  thy  wish  ? 

MOINA. 

Great  Chief  of  the  Narragansetts,  father  to  my  Samo 
sacus,  Moina,  thy  child,  asks  for  justice  and  mercy  for  a 
pale-faced  sister.  In  my  wigwam  now  she  lies,  heart- 
stricken,  features  saddened  and  heavy,  doomed  by  her 
stern  brothers  ;  turned  from  their  homes,  her  kindred, 
her  lover;  a  dark  mantle  o'er  her  shoulders,  darkening 


26  CANOMCUS.  [ACT  nr. 

even  her  very  soul,  with  a  "  scarlet  letter,"  bright  and 
glaring,  like  the  sun  in  angry  cloud. 

CANONICUS. 

The  "Scarlet  Letter!"  'Tis  the  badge  of  sin,  my 
daughter,  fearful  sin;  too  pure  thy  ear  to  know  its  por 
tent  !  It  is  the  white  man's  "  Law." 

MOINA. 

Nay,  nay,  she  has  no  sin;  a  bird  of  love  from  her  heart 
is  nestling  in  mine.  I  know  she  has  not  sinned.  Woman 
wit  reads  woman's  heart,  best  reads  her  wrongs. 

CANONICUS. 

Bid  her  here.  [Exit  MOINA.]  We  will  hear  her  tale. 
Canonicus  never  turns  a  deaf  ear  on  the  calls  of  mercy 
and  of  justice.  Here  she  comes,  graceful  as  the  wood 
land's  fawn.  [Enter  MAEY,  JONES,  and  MOINA.] 

Maiden,  we  are  thy  friends.  Fear  not,  though  thy  face 
is  pale  and  fair,  to  uncover  before  my  braves.  Thy  sex 
is  thy  safeguard  with  mine  of  the  Narragansetts.  What 
thy  woe  ?  What  thy  wish  ?  Give  me  thy  tale.  We  will 
hearken;  we  will  act. 

JONES. 

Great  Chief,  may  I  speak?  Many  moons  have  risen 
and  sunk  since  a  prisoner  you  took  me  in,  fed  me,  and 
gave  me  clothes.  I  went  to  the  white  man  on  Plymouth 
Kock,  as  they  call  it,  and  they  spurned  me,  and  cast  me 
out  for  a  fancied  wrong;  saying,  I  was  not  of  their  faith; 
though  I  worshipped  the  same  God  and  hoped  in  the 
t  same  Saviour's  love.  Quaker  born,  they  loved  me  not, 
would  have  me  not.  This  is  their  mercy  then.  Justice — 
such  is  it  ever;  but  the  Chief  of  the  Narragansetts  is  my 
friend,  gave  me  all  I  asked. 


SCENE    I.]  CANONICUS.  27 

CANONICUS. 

Gives  the  same  to  a  vanquished  foe.  Nothing  more. 
But  what  is  this  to  the  fair  daughter  of  your  race,  now 
before  us  ? 

JONES. 

She  loved,  and  was  deceived.  A  man  in  power  her  un- 
doer. 

CANONICUS. 

Tis  as  ever  runs  the  white  man's  tale.  Gentle  maiden's 
all  the  sin,  though  guileless  and  pure;  in  the  artful  woer 
no  offense  ever  found.  What  wouldst  thou,  daughter  ? 

MAKY. 

My  babe,  my  guiltless  babe.  They  tore  it  from  my 
arms,  my  bosom.  My  boy  !  my  boy  ! 

CANONICUS. 

Dry  thy  tears !  Cease  thy  cry !  Thou  shalt  have  thy 
babe — thy  boy.  And  thy  lover,  wouldst  thou  him  ? 

MAKY. 

He  has  my  heart,  and  I  honored  him.  Though  thus 
wronged,  I  would  die  for  him  ! 

CANONICUS. 

Go,  my  braves — ten  in  number — to  the  pale-faces  of 
Plymouth  Rock.  "White  Son  will  be  thy  spokesman.  Say 
that,  though  Canonicus  is  bound  by  no  pledge,  save  the 
pledge  binds  all  mankind  to  their  fellows,  that  he  will 
meet  their  chiefs  in  council  ere  the  sun  is  in  the  west, 
that  Canonicus  will  be  with  them;  'tis  to  save  their  honor, 
it  may  be  their  lives.  Canonicus  has  secret  news  for 
them. 

Moina,  prepare;  thou  and  thy  white  sister  go  with  us  1 


28  CANONICUS.  [ACT  in. 

\_To  JONES].  White  Son.     Nineteen  moons  have  passed. 
Samosacus  is  not  here  ! 

JONES. 

One  moon  more  must  full  and  fade  ere  we  question 
their  faith.     Our  King  never  broke  his  word. 

CANONICTTS. 

He  has  my  honor.     He  never  will !     Now,  hasten  unto 
Plymouth  Bock.     As  thy  shadows  we  will  be  with  thee. 

[Exeunt  all. 


SCENE    SECOND. 

Plymouth  Rock. 
CARVER,  STANDISH,  JONES,  and  other  Indian  Braves  enter. 

JONES. 

Governor,  Canonicus,  the  Great  Chief,  sent  us  here  to 
give  you  word  he  would  soon  be  with  you  with  great 
news,  to  save  your  honor,  perhaps  your  lives. 

CARVER. 

Then  at  last  he  will  wait  on  us.  It  is,  friends,  a  mighty 
portent;  it  foreshadows  the  glory  of  the  English  rule. 
Thus  tribe  after  tribe  sue  for  peace  with  us;  all  were 
our  friends  save  this  proud  Chief,  and  now  even  he  craves 
a  hearing. 

STANDISH. 

The  terror  of 'our  arms  has  filled  the  land !  Said  I  not, 
it  would  ? 

CARVER. 

The  justice  of  our  rule,  trust  me,  has  done  far  more. 


SCENE   II.]  CANONICUS.  29 

BRADFORD. 

A  smiling  Providence,  through  all  our  ills,  hath  ever 
shone  its  face.     There  be  our  praise,  our  thanks. 
Enter  CANONICUS  and  Braves. 

CARVER. 

Welcome,  Great  Chief,  to  our  Council  Fire.  Take  the 
pipe  of  peace  and  feast  with  us. 

CANONICUS. 

Canonicus  needs  no  pipe  of  peace.  He  never  made  or 
threatened  war  against  the  pale-face  of  the  east.  He 
comes  as  he  came,  through  his  braves,  when  first  you  trod 
his  shores,  and  the  Ice  King  raged  and  ravaged  the  land, 
to  give  you  counsel,  to  give  you  care.  There  was  danger 
to  you  then  in  the  snow-cloud;  there  is  fiercer  danger  in  the 
storm-cloud  of  wrath  that  rides  through  the  summer  sky. 
Canonicus  comes  as  a  friend  to  give  you  warning.  He 
bids  you  be  just,  be  merciful.  You  may  yet  seek  for 
both  in  a  foe,  and  seek  in  vain — Canonicus'  voice  un 
heeded. 

CARVER. 

What  mean  you,  great  Chief ;  there  is  terror  in  your 
words,  yet  your  actions  are  those  of  friendship  ? 

CANONICUS. 

Then  hearken  to  my  words,  as  the  brave  does  the  dis 
tant  tramp.  Low  and  close  thine  ear  to  my  speech.  You 
say  you  came  in  love  to  our  shores.  You  fled  from  a 
land  of  fierce  laws  to  a  land  of  love;  where  free,  you 
might  worship  your  Great  Spirit  after  your  own  form, 
and  live  in  "  union  "  and  in  "  brotherly  love." 

BRADFORD. 

Even  so. 


30  cAxoificcs.  [ACT  m. 

CANONICUS. 

You  tell  us,  this  teaches  to  love  thy  neighbor  as  thy 
self.  Is  it  not  so  ? 

CARVEB. 

It  is. 

CANONICUS. 

To  do  unto  others  as  you  would  be  done  by. 

CAEVEK. 

Most  truly  so. 

CANONICUS. 

Know  you  this  man,  a  pale-face  brother  ? 

STANDISH. 

It  is  the  fellow  Jones  ! 

CANONICUS. 

Great  warrior,  thy  speech  is  unworthy  thy  rank.  That 
sneer  sits  not  well  on  thy  manly  lip.  Greatness  ne'er  in 
sults  a  fallen  foe.  Still,  as  thou  wouldst  seem  to  name 
some,  what  may  be  his  offense  ? 

STANDISH. 
He  is  a  Quaker ! 

CANONICUS. 

Then  not  thy  brother  ?  Not  thy  neighbor  ?  A  Quaker, 
backed  as  thou  art  by  armed  warriors,  thou  lookest  on 
him  as  though  he  were  the  mountain  wolf;  thine  eye 
glares  as  the  panther's  on  the  deer  he  would  devour. 
Such  thy  faith,  canst  thou  ask  the  red  man  to  be  thy 
friend  ?  Dost  thou  not  teach  him  to  be  wary  and  watch 
thee  as  a  foe  ?  The  lesson  you  teach  we  will  learn,  but 
may  the  Great  Spirit  of  our  Fathers  keep  us  from  its  prac 
tice.  Such  thine,  and  you  must  fall.  Canonicus  bids 
you  beware. 


SC-XE    II.]  CANOROUS.  31 

Moina,  my  fair  child,  where  is  thy  friend  ?  [Mono. 
brings  in  -MARY.]  Know  ye  this  fair  flower  ?  the  lily  of 
the  vale  were  not  more  beautiful 

CARVER. 
Aye,  Chief !     She  has  broken  our  law. 

CANONICUS. 

Your  law  !  Your  law !  Be  it  so.  Was  there  no  part 
ner  in  her  guilt  ?  as  you  choose  to  name  it.  Where  is  he 
whom  we  would  name  her  lover,  her  husband,  her  chief  ? 
Where  is  the  pledge  of  their  loves  ?  Your  Great  Spirit 
gave  the  fair  mother  her  babe;  do  you,  but  men,  pale 
face  men,  dare  take  from  her  what  He  gives  ?  Thou  hast 
taught  us  He  says,  Vengeance  is  mine.  If  ye  have  no 
love,  no  mercy  for  the  girl,  give  her  her  child,  that  it 
may  shield  ye  from  His  wrath. 

WILLIAMS. 

Canonicus  speaks  well,  Governor;  I  counsel  that  we  re 
store  the  child. 

[MARY  casts  herself  at  his  feet,  MOINA  with  her.\ 

MARY. 
Give  me  my  child,  my  darling  babe  ! 

CANONICUS. 

Arise,  Moina;  never  kneel  to  the  pale-faces.  I  and 
mine  are  lords  here.  Peace,  daughter,  you  shall  yet  have 
your  child.  Canonicus  holds  the  pale-faces  in  his  hand. 
They  will  not  he  should  clutch  it  in  anger. 

Great  Chief,  you  say  she  sinned.  She  sinned  not  alone; 
where  is  he  she  loved  so  well ;  loved  as  only  woman 
loves  ? 

STANDISH. 

Off  to  the  chase. 


32  CANONICUS.  [ACT  in. 

CANONICUS. 

Pale-face,  them  knowest  it  is  not  so.  Canonicus  reads 
thy  thoughts — thou  art  too  brave  in  spirit  to  lie.  Truth 
is  stamped  upon  thy  brow,  and  frowns  down  upon  thy  lip 
a3  thou  speakest.  Bring  him  here,  or  Canouicus  leaves 
this  Council,  with  that  untold,  upon  which  hang  your 
lives  and  those  of  all  belonging  to  you.  If  you  will  not 
learn  mercy,  you  shall  learn  justice,  though  Savage  of  the 
Forest,  as  you  name  me,  be  thy  teacher.  What  means  this 
mantle,  this  glaring  litter  on  the  gloomy  ground  ?  Is  this 
mercy?  Is  this  justice?  Her  undoer  has  no  brand," 
is  not  driven  forth  from  his  home — has  not  been  robbed 
of  all  dearer  than  life.  Yet  he  is  strong,  and  can  bear 
tbe  forest  life.  She  is  frail  and  feeble  as  a  flower;  and 
but  for  Moina,  had  failed  long  ago.  Remember  the  light 
ning's  flash  rifts  the  oak,  but  the  lily  is  unharmed. 
[A  young  man  enters.  MARY  shrieks,  and  faints.  HENRY,  my 

loved  Lord  !J 

CANONICUS. 

It  is  he !     Young  chief,  what  means  this  wrong  ? 

HENEY. 
It  is  not  my  doing. 

CANONICUS. 

Nay,  nay;  thy  voice  is  faint.  She  is  thy  love,  thy  wife. 
Thou  must  take  her  to  thy  home  with  thy  babe.  Thy 
people's  lif  e  is  the  price. 

HENRY  CARVEB. 

My  father  wills  it  not. 

CANONICUS. 

In  this,  thou  hast  no  father  upon  earth.  Hearken  to 
Him  who  speaks  from  heaven.  [Tliunders.] 


SCEXE    II.]  CANONICUS.  33 

GOVERNOR  CARVER. 

Nay,  nay;  we  will  it  not.    She  has  sinned  ! 

STANDISH. 
Aye,  fearfully  sinned! 

BRADFORD. 

Shamefully  sinned ! 

ROGER  WILLIAMS. 

Yet,  been  sinned  against ! 

CANONICUS. 

Well  sayst  thou,  man  of  peace  and  of  prayer !  But  be 
it  as  you  say,  Great  Chiefs — even  so — take  this  knife. 
[He  whispers  to  MARY  :  "  Fear  not."  He  supports  MARY  with 
his  left  arm  and  holds  the  knife  in  his  right.]  Now  let  him 
who  has  not  sinned  strike  her !  even  to  the  heart !  Can- 
onicus  holds  the  fawn  for  the  slaughter ! 

HENRY  CARVER. 

My  Mary;  my  dearest  Mary.  [He  springs  for  ward,  but 
is  held  by  his  father  and  MILES  STANDISH.] 

CANONICUS. 

Not  one  to  strike !  Not  one  fit  to  rid  the  earth  of  this 
foul  blot !  Not  one  of  all,  preachers  and  prayers  as  ye 
are — without  sin. 

Tear  off  this  badge  of  shame,  not  to  her,  but  to  you 
men  of  years  and  of  sin.  If  ever  the  Narragansett 
should  war  against  ye,  this  after  your  manner  shall  be  the 
ensign  they  will  rear.  Your  hearts  shall  quail  at  its  sight, 
thinking  of  your  injustice,  of  the  lesson  taught  you  by 
the  unlettered  red  man  of  the  forest.  Young  chief,  take 
thy  bride.  She  is  too  pure,  I  know;  but  thou  hast  her 
love.  Moiua,  she  is  faint — bring  her  babe;  its  feeble  cry 


34  CANONICUS.  [ACT  iv. 

will  reach  the  mother's  heart  and  awake  to  life.  [Tfe^/n- 
iwj  MARY  to  him.]  Thy  arm,  young  chief.  [Giriny  bu-'.e.] 
Thy  marriage  bond!  Her  life  is  saved.  Thy  wouudcd 
honor  healed.  Great  Chiefs,,  reverse  your  laws.  Canoni- 
cus  is  obeyed — thy  nation's  saved.  A  thousand  braves 
await  your  call.  Thy  foe,  fierce  Weston,  is  on  the  march 
against  you,  but  his  days  are  numbered.  Canonicus  has 
spoken.  Mercy  and  justice  have  triumphed !  Holy  Fa 
ther,  Thy  blessing !  Kneel,  my  children ! 

KOGEE  WILLIAMS. 

Take  her,  Henry  !    take  him,  Mary  !   ye  are  one  1 


ACT  IV. 

A  beautiful  Scene  near  Canonicus'  "Wigwam — Moina  sitting  at  the 
foot  of  a  Waterfall. 

MOINA. 

Twenty  moons  have  come  and  gone.  Spring's  flowers 
nave  bloomed  and  are  buried.  Summer's  fruits  are 
come  again,  and  the  autumn  nuts  shall  fall,  but  Moina  has 
no  Samosacus  to  gather  them  for  her.  The  fair  daughter 
of  the  pale-face  chief  has  her  brave  and  her  babe.  Can 
onicus  sought  and  found  both  for  her,  and  gave  her  life. 
"Why  may  he  not  bring  Samosacus  to  me,  who  have  loved 
now  so  long.  The  leaves  rustle  through  the  winds,  mur- 


SCENE   I.]  CANONICUS.  35 

muring  through  the  tall  grass,  where  the  deer  loves  to 
feed.  Now  they  come  to  quench  their  thirst,  while  Moina 
tells  her  tale  to  the  music  of  the  waters  —  they  heed  her 
not,  fear  her  not,  for  she  loves  them  as  she  loves  all  the 
Great  Spirit  made.  The  sun  is  high,  and  the  heat  fierce. 
Soon  our  young  braves  will  seek  these  waves.  Moina 
must  away  ere  they  come  to  spear  the  fisfa.  Too  long 
have  I  tarried,  but  my  love  fills  all  time.  Moina  knows 
no  nights,  no  days;  all  are  as  one,  Samosacus  not  return 
ed.  The  young  braves  are  here,  and  with  them  the 
young  Muntumo,  the  proud,  painted  warrior  of  the  Mo- 
hegans,  who  seeks  my  love,  but  it  is  gone  ! 

[Indians  enter,  and  MOINA  retiring,  turns 


MUNTUMO. 

Why  wilt  thou  away,  fair  Moina  ?  We  came  to  stalk 
the  deer  and  spear  the  fish.  Had  we  known  'twould 
fright  thee  away,  it  had  not  been  so.  Some  other  time  we 
had  sought  them.  What  does  the  fair  child  of  Canonicus  by 
the  murmuring  stream  ?  Would  she  the  voice  of  love  ? 
Muntumo  will  sing  her  songs;  tell  her  tales  of  the  past; 
tales  of  the  fight.  Will  wear  twenty  scalps  in  his  girdle, 
and  hunt  the  deer  alone  for  her,  if  she  wih1  but  sit  in  his 
wigwam  and  be  his  bride.  'Tis  the  son  of  Massassoit, 
Great  Chief  of  the  Mohegans,  has  come  to  sue  for  her 
love. 

MOINA. 

Moina  hears  it  all.  Moina  is  heavy-hearted.  Brave 
Muntumo,  Moina  has  no  love  to  give.  It  is  gone. 

MUNTUMO. 

Moina  has  no  love  !  Yet  she  lingers  by  the  banks  of 
the  Merrimac.  She  watches  its  clear,  limpid  waters  come 
welling  up  from  the  rifled  rock,  go  dashing  down  the  hill- 


30  CATsroNicus.  [ACT  iv. 

sides,  stealing  under  the  dark,  old  forests;  receiving  into 
its  transparent  bosom  each  little  brooklet,  rivulet,  and 
river  that  hastens  from  miles  around  to  pay  tribute  to  its 
conquering  way,  until  at  last  a  broad,  sparkling,  beaut  if  xu* 
sheet  of  water  pours-  its  flowing  wealth  into  old  ocean's 
briny  depths !  And  has  Moina  no  ear  for  love,  hearken 
ing  to  all  this  ? 

MOINA. 

Moina  has  love  for  all;  not  for  one,  proud,  brave,  Mun- 
tumo.  Moina  would  light  the  fire  in  a  wigwam  of  her 
own  tribe. 

MUNTUMO. 

Light  but  mine,  our  tribes  shall  be  one.  Canonicus 
has  no  son. 

MOINA. 

Thou  sayest  not  true.  He  has  a  son.  Samosacus  is 
away;  now  many  moons  gone.  Samosacus  will  be  here. 

MUNTUMO. 

Not  Samosacus  of  thy  tender  years,  of  thy  love.  I  read 
thy  tale.  Pale-face  arts  have  spoiled  thy  boy.  Moina 
loves  an  Indian  brave,  not  the  petted  puppet  of  the  pale 
faces'  show. 

MOINA. 

Moina  loves  but  once.  These  waters  have  but  one  song, 
ceaseless,  undying.  So  Moina.  Thy  love  I  prize,  'tis  of 
one  brave  and  good.  Saugus  the  Chieftain,  too,  hath 
borne  his  gay  present  of  murmuring  sea-shells.  It  could 
not  tempt  my  girlish  heart.  So  I  sighed  his  love  away. 
Muntumo  has  my  honor,  he  is  great  and  good.  Muntu- 
mo  has  my  thanks,  shah1  have  my  prayers. 

MUNTUMO. 

Samosacus  will  not  come,  fairest  daughter  of  the  forest 
— he  dallies  far  away. 


SCENE   I.]  CANONICUS.  37 

MOINA. 

Nay,  nay;  not  so.  He  will  come.  Hark  that  tramp;  'tis 
the  tread  of  friends — Canonicus,  Father,  and  ha,  Sam- 
osacus !  [Enter  CANONICUS,  SAMOSACUS,  and  braves.] 

Samosacus !     Samosacus !     [Sinks  in  his  arms.] 

SAMOSACUS. 
My  Moina ! 

MOINA. 

Great  Father,  this  thy  act.  Thy  heart  of  love  works 
for  all.  Samosacus,  thou  dost  not  speak. 

SAMOSACUS. 

Thy  beauty  strikes  me  dumb,  fair  Moina,  like  the  sun 
on  awakening  sight;  thy  brightness  dazzles  all.  I  see,  I 
feel  but  thee.  Father,  thou  hast  cared  her  well. 

MOINA. 
But  how  came  you  here,  and  Moina  not  at  the  shore  ? 

SAMOSACUS. 

Many  miles  from  this  lies  the  winged  canoe  bore  me 
home  from  England's  shore ;  but  of  this,  by  and  by,  and 
the  wonders  met  my  sight.  Samosacus  has  journeyed 
long  his  Moina  to  greet.  Samosacus  is  weary. 

MOINA. 

Quaff  these  limpid  waters,  they  will  give  thee  strength. 
An  Indian  brave,  thou  knowest  their  power.  Kneel  with 
me  at  its  fount — the  lily  shall  be  thy  cup,  gemmed  all  with 
dew !  [MOINA  kneels,  and  gives  water  out  of  lily  leaf.] 

CANONICUS. 

Braves,  add  your  voices  by  this  bright  water  so  glitter 
ing  in  the  sun,  making  gay  music  in  our  homes;  gladden 
ing  the  hearts  of  all  at  return  of  Samosacus,  our  son. 


38  CANONICUS.  [ACT  iv. 

MOINA. 

Our  pale-face  brother  spake  the  truth. 

SAMOSACUS. 

Thy  pale-face  brother,  where  is  he  ?    I  knew  this  not. 
CANONICUS. 

A  brave  took  him  prisoner  in  the  fight  and  brought  him 
home.  He  spake  of  thee;  called  thy  name,  and  we  wel 
comed  him.  He  told  us  of  thy  fate,  after  many  moons 
of  mourning,  and  said  thou  wouldst  be  here  twenty 
moons  gone,  and  he  was  true.  The  pale-faces  call  him 
"  Quaker,"  call  him  Jones,  and  will  have  none  of  him. 

SAMOSACUS. 

Jones  his  name  ?  He  was  my  friend.  There  is  an 
other  waits  without.  Roger  Williams  he  is  called;  chosen 
servant  of  the  Great  Spirit.  Driven  out  by  the  pale-faces, 
he  journeyed  south;  our  paths  crossed.  I  spake  in  his 
tongue.  He  told  me  his  tale.  I  brought  him  hither. 

CANONICUS. 

Thou  hast  done  well !  Persecution  marks  their  steps — 
these  Plymouth  men !  [Enter  ROGER  WILLIAMS,  with  staff 
and  bundle.]  Bid  him  hither ! 

Pale-face  brother,  thou  hast  my  heart;  here  art  wel 
come.  Last  moon  thou  wert  in  favor;  what  thy  fault 
with  thy  pale-faced  friends  ?  What  thy  teaching,  that  thou 
art  driven  out  ? 

WILLIAMS. 

Great  Chief  of  the  Narragansetts,  thou  more  than 
friend  to  my  people,  since  thou  hast  dared  to  tell  them 
wherein  they  erred;  thou  wilt  not  think  the  less  of  me 
when  I  say,  my  fault,  my  only  fault  is  in  that  I  preach 
ed,  "  that  the  civil  magistrate  should  restrain  crime,  but 


SCENE   I.]  CANONICUS.  3!) 

never  control  opinion.  Should  punish  guilt,  but  never 
violate  the  freedom  of  the  soul."  For  this  they  have 
banished  me  from  my  home,  from  my  friends;  but  the 
Great  Spirit,  who  governs  all,  will  guide  me  to  another, 
where  I  shall  gather  together  warm,  true  hearts,  and 
found  a  State  where  the  purest  principles  of  civil  and  re 
ligious  liberty  shall  prevail. 

CANONICUS. 

"Well  hast  thou  spoken.  Well  hast  thou  done,  thou 
faithful  minister  of  the  Great  Spirit.  My  braves  shall 
guide  thee  to  a  home  worthy  of  thy  pure,  rare  nature;  an 
island  girded  by  the  sea,  long  the  sacred  resting-place  of 
the  warriors  of  our  tribe,  who,  great  in  battle,  council,  or 
in  chase,  at  last  yielded  to  the  grim  foe  of  all.  This  shall 
be  yours,  and  those  you  may  appoint,  a  recompense 
for  your  earnest  action  in  Mary  Carver's  cause;  as  thou 
hast  won  it  by  service  to  her,  the  fairest  of  her  fair  race ; 
so  thine  shall  be  the  land  from  which  shall  spring  the 
loveliest  of  their  sex  throughout  this  clime,  nursed  by  the 
balmy  breezes  from  the  south. 

Samosacus,  our  son,  though  just  returned,  shall  be  your 
escort,  with  fifty  braves.  Be  wary,  for  the  Pequods,  star- 
like  strong,  are  on  their  march.  I  and  my  braves  with  their 
great  chiefs,  Pokanoket  and  Massassoit,  will  haste  to  meet 
them. 

SAMOSACUS. 

Moina  weeps.     Samosacus  just  returned. 

MOINA. 

Truly  Moina  weeps,  but  they  a'.'T  tears  of  joy,  that 
honor,  such  as  this,  should  be  for  him. 


40  CANONICTJS.  [ACT  y. 

CANONICUS. 

Thy  blessing  on  us  ere  we  go,  Father  of  the  pale-face 
and  the  red  man  of  the  wood. 

[Indian  war-dance;  then  the:/  kneel,  and  ROGER  WILLIAMS 
blesses  them.] 

END  OF  ACT  IV. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  FIRST. 
Indian  Camp— Waterfall — Hour,  Morning. 

MOINA. 

The  bird  of  morn  sweetly  sang  as  Moina's  eyes  were 
kissed  by  the  early  light  of  dawn,  and  told  her  heart  Sam- 
osacus  would  be  home  with  many  scalps  of  foes  in  his 
belt,  and  many  prisoners  in  his  train.  He  must  have  met 
the  great  chiefs  of  the  Narragansetts  and  Mohegans  with 
their  white  brothers  as  they  call  them,  and  joined  them 
in  battle  against  the  Pequods  and  the  tribe  of  Winslow. 
Ere  he  comes,  I  will  deck  me  by  the  side  of  these  glassy 
waters,  for  my  bridal  is  at  hand.  [She  decks  herself.]  The 
beauties  of  lovely  maidens  have  been  reflected  in  this 
glassy  mirror.  Mighty  warriors  have  washed  the  paint 
from  their  faces,  and  the  blood  from  their  hands  in  its 
bright  waters,  and  deeds  of  nobleness,  of  daring,  of  out 
rage  have  been  planned  on  its  brink.  [MUNTUMO  enters.] 

Ha,  Muntumo  of  the  Mohegans,  what  wouldst  thou  in 


SCENE    I.]  CANONICUS.  41 

the  chamber  of  Moina  ?  From  day's  early  hours  our  tribe 
have  given  this  spot  to  its  daughters  as  their  own.  But 
thou  art  faint,  and  there  is  blood.  What  means  this,  brave 
Muntumo  ? 

MUNTUMO. 

Love  for  thee,  fair  Moina!  The  white  man,  Carver's 
son,  used  thy  name  with  foul  speech,  detracted  from  thy 
fair  fame. 

MOINA. 

He  whose  bride  Moina  saved?  He  whose  babe,  our 
Great  Father  Canonicus  sought  and  found  ?  He  whose 
honor  he  healed,  and  whose  sick  heart  he  cured?  He 
used  Moina's  name  ? 

MUNTUMO. 

He  did,  and  though  faint  and  weary  with  the  long  fever, 
I  told  him  'twas  false.  He  struck  me;  I  felled  him  to  the 
earth  with  the  little  strength  I  had  left,  and  he  stabbed 
me  to  the  heart.  Snake  with  the  forked-tongue,  I  left 
him  stunned  by  my  blow,  and  tottered  here  to  die,  that 
the  warrior  might  sleep  where  his  heart  only  lived;  near 
her,  the  child  of  him  he  so  honored,  great  Canonicus. 

MOINA. 

Nay,  nay;  thou  shalt  not  die.  Taste  these  waters 
[gives  drink  from  stream],  they  are  strong,  full  of  life,  and 
will  give  it  thee.  Thou  shalt  not  die.  Moina  bathes  thy 
brow.  Thou  art  pale.  [She  supports  his  head.]  Thou 
art  faint.  My  childhood's  friend,  my  childhood's  lover, 
though  I  would  it  not.  Art  thou  gone  ?  there  is  no  breath 
— there  is  no  sigh ! 
[She  stoops  to  list  his  breathing.  SAMOSACUS  and  his  braves 

enter.] 

SAMOSACUS. 

Ha,  Moina !  and  my  foe !     Moiua,  dost  thou  well  ? 


42  CANONICUS.  [ACT  v. 

MOINA. 

Muntumo  is  no  more.  The  Great  Father  has  called 
him  home.  Faint,  he  fell  at  my  feet,  and  I  bore  him 
water.  I  bathed  his  brow.  What  meanest  thou,  Samo- 
sacus?  Thou  turnest  away  with  a  storm-cloud  on  thy 
face. 

SAMOSACUS. 

Thou  bathest  his  brow!  Thou  kissedst  his  lips!  In 
death  your  spirits  mingled.  Samosacus  mourns  thee 
gone.  No  Moiua  has  he  now. 

MOINA. 

Cruel  brave,  this  is  not  so.  Monia  kissed  him  not ! 
Moina  had  been  thy  foe,  had  she  done  but  as  she  did. 
Thou  hadst  not  loved  her  had  she  failed  in  the  office  and 
the  hour  when  maidens  shine  most  lovely — by  the  side  of 
suffering,  by  the  side  of  death !  Thou  sayest  no  Moina 
hast  thou  now.  It  is  well.  Jealous  grown — wronging  in 
thought— no  Samosacus  have  I  now.  I  loved  him  of 
my  youth.  Samosacus  left  my  side — his  pure  nature 
changed.  The  pale-faces  have  turned  his  heart. 

SAMOSACUS. 

And  the  fate  of  war  turned  his  eye,  when  lovely  as  the 
dawn  of  day,  graceful  as  the  swaying  lily — the  daughter 
of  Sasacus,  the  Sachem  of  the  Pequods— fairest  Nyana, 
gave  beauty  to  the  scene. 

MOINA. 

Ha !  is  it  so  ?  May  Samosacus  be  blessed.  May  Nyana 
be  happy.  There  is  no  Moina  more.  Young  braves  bear 
Muntumo  to  the  foot  of  the  -falling  waters.  He  was 
great,  he  was  good  ;  his  burial  shall  be  in  honor.  Hark  ! 
a  tramp  is  on  the  air.  'Tis  Canonicus  comes !  [CANON- 
icus  enters.]  Dear  father,  at  my  feet,  death- wounded  by 


SCENE    IT.]  CANONICUS.  4:3 

the  poisoned  fang  of  the  double-tongued  pale-face— 
whose  fair  bride,  whose  babe,  whose  honor  you  saved — 
fell  Muutumo,  with  the  tale  that  the  pale-face  slurred  her 
name — the  name  of  her  who  was  their  friend — Moina, 
thy  child.  He  said  that  it  was  false,  and  the  pale-face 
pierced  his  heart.  His  last  words  were  of  you.  You 
must  render  him  the  last  of  earth's  honors ! 

CANONICUS. 

Brave  Muntumo,  art  thou  gone  ?  Thy  heart  knew  no 
guile  ;  thy  hand  no  blood,  save  blood  of  foe.  Thy  honor 
thou  hast  left  to  me,  and  thou  shalt  be  avenged !  Bear 
him  near  to  me,  young  braves.  May  his  life  be  your 
guide.  Let  thy  maidens,  Moina,  join — rare  the  service 
we  will  show  him. 


SCENE  SECOND. 
Plymouth  Rock — A  Council,  Indians  and  Whites. 

SAMOSACUS. 

Great  Governor  of  Plymouth  Rock,  now  two  years 
absent  from  my  land,  but  just  returned  son  of  the  Nar- 
ragansett,  I  joined  your  warriors  with  our  braves  against 
the  Pequods,  and  in  my  train  have  many  prisoners. 
Some  are  maidens  young  and  beautiful.  Some  are  chief 
tains  brave  and  strong  ;  and  one,  the  Sachem  of  the 
Pequods,  brave  Sasacus,  fell  beneath  my  blow.  It  was 
my  part  to  claim  his  life  had  I  listed.  His  daughter,  the 
beautiful  Nyana,  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  turned 
my  arm.  As  my  captive  I  claim  his  life,  and  to  his  native 
lands  would  give  him  back. 


44  CAXONICUS.  [ACT  v. 

CABVEB. 

Never  so !  Our  foes  increase — sucli  folly  shown  toward 
them. 

STANDISH. 

His  death  would  best  serve  our  cause. 

SAMOSACUS. 

Warrior,  but  for  my  father's  alms,  my  father's  counsel, 
my  father's  care,  Plymouth  Eock  ere  now  had  been  no 
more.  Think  of  that !  His  blood  would  do  ye  no  good. 
His  hate  is  all  gone.  His  friendship  may  be  yours.  I 
ask  but  my  rights ! 

CANONICUS. 

Valiant  son!  I  have  heard  thy  speech.  It  is  well.  The 
pale-faces  have  no  rights  here.  As  our  friends,  we  will 
guard  their  lives  and  their  honors.  [To  White*. ]  Ye 
seek  the  life  of  Sasacus.  This  may  not  be.  He  is  a  brave 
sachem,  kind  and  merciful,  and  has  a  right  to  the  same 
usage  he  gives  others. 

CARVER. 

Canonicus,  it  is  our  law !     He  dies. 

CANONICUS. 

Your  law!  Is  this  the  law  your  Greit  Spirit  teaches? 
Far  other  lesson  our  Great  Spirit  has  taught  us ! 

CARVER. 

Yonr  Great  Spirit!  How  know  you  that  there  is  a 
Great  Spirit  ? 

CANONICUS. 

See  you  these  footprints  in  the  sand  ?  How  know  you 
that  men  have  been  here  ? 

I  look  aloft  into  the  boundless  sky.  I  gaze  upon  the 
fathomless  deep.  I  wonder  at  the  countless  beauties  of 


SCENE   II.]  CANONICUS.  4:5 

earth,  and  at  His  thunder  shrink  with  awe,  and  yet  you 
ask  how  I  know  that  there  is  a  Great  Spirit  ?  There  is — 
there  is,  I  know.  I  feel  there  is,  for  does  He  not  dwell 
within  this  narrow  heai*t  and  yet  fill  all  the  world? 
Braves,  bear  Sa?acus  in  honor  to  his  home !  My  son,  be 
he  your  charge.  [JSxeunt. 

STANDISH. 

Not  so,  brave  chief.  He  must  die.  [To  a  soldier.] 
Go,  watch  their  steps. 

CANONICUS. 

Governor  of  the  pale-faces !  say  you  so  ? 

CARVES. 
"Tis  our  law ! 

CANONICUS. 

This  is  your  law?  "What  is  your  law,  then,  for  foul 
murder  done  ? 

CAKVEB. 
Death  is  its  penalty ! 

CANONICUS. 
"When  the  pale-face  does  the  deed  ? 

CAEVER. 
Even  so ! 

CANONICUS. 

Bring  hither  young  Carver,  the  governor's  son.  [HENRY 
CAKVEB  enters.']  Young  man,  there  is  blood  upon  thy 
hand !  The  blood  of  my  friend,  the  brave  Muntumo !  I 
gave  you  your  bride,  your  babe,  and  more — your  honor. 
You  sought  to  stain  the  honor  of  my  child — the  peerless 
Moina.  Muntumo  knew  'twas  false.  He  spake  it.  You 
struck  him.  He  felled  you  to  the  earth,  and  you  stabbed 
him  to  the  heart — he  died !  Was  this  well  done  ?  Pale 
faces,  thy  law  is  death.  Give  me  this  boy's  life  for  my 
friend's.  'Tis  thy  law ! 


46  CANONICUS.  [ACT  v. 

CAKVER. 

Nay,  nay.     He  did  but  avenge  a  blow ! 
CANONICUS. 

Muntumo  sought  to  avenge  my  fond  child's  good 
name,  thus  illy  spoken  !  Whose  offense  was  the  greatest  ? 
The  blow  given  her  fame  would  last  for  life.  That  Mun 
tumo  gave  thy  son  (though  in  answer  to  his  first  ren 
dered)  was  washed  out  by  gentle  words  and  felt  no  more. 
Again  will  the  Chief  of  the  Narragansetts  ask  ye  justice. 
He  will  pardon  thy  son  for  the  sake  of  his  bride — his 
babe — but  he  saves  brave  Sasacus,  and  sends  him  in 
safety  home. 

STANDISH. 

Nay,  nay  ;  this  shall  not  be.  Bather  a  pale-face  should 
die  than  this  fierce  chief  be  free.  \_To  CARVER  aside."] 
There  is  old  Jones.  He  is  no  use  now.  Let  him  be  hung 
instead.  Besides,  he  merits  it  for  other  faults.  This 
will  appease  the  chiefs,  and  Sasacus  be  ours  ! 

CARVER. 
Be  it  so.     Bring  him  disguised  in  Henry's  clothes. 

[Exit  STANDISH  with  guards  and  HENRY. 
CANONICUS  [aside]. 

These  wily  chiefs !  They  say  the  red  man  is  untrue,  is 
like  the  snake  !  That  they  cannot  trust  him.  They  have 
one  law  for  themselves,  and  one  for  the  red  man.  Yet 
this  is  justice  ?  Had  Muntumo  slain  his  son,  Muntumo 
must  have  died.  His  son  slew  Muntumo — but  only  a  son 
of  the  forest.  'Twas  no  offence;  he  is  free;  he  lives. 
[STANDISH  enters  with  guard,  and  old  JONES  disguised  and 
blindfolded]. 

STANDISH. 

Canoiiicus,  thy  victim  is  here,  bound  hand   and    foot. 


SCENE    II.]  CANONTCUS.  47 

The  rope  is  around  liis  neck.     A  tree  is  near.     Take  him, 
and  we  take  Sasacus. 

CANONICUS  [looking  around]. 

[Aside.]  A  fraud !  I  see  it  all,  and  I  will  prove  it  such ! 
[  Going  up  to  culprit,  he  wh ispers,  "  Fear  not."  Aloud :]  Pale 
face,  thou  must  die.  Thy  minutes  are  numbered!  Yet 
thy  Medicine  Father  is  not  here!  [Turning  to  CARVEK.] 
Pale-face  Chief,  let  one  be  sought.  He  must  die  in  the 
faith  you  teach.  Hast  thou  no  mercy  for  thy  son,  thy 
eldest  child,  thy  only  son  ?  We  red  men  know  not  the 
cord.  The  arrow  bears  our  death  warrant. 

[To  CABVER.]  Take  you  this  rope;  there  grows  a  tree 
of  a  thousand  summers.  I  would  thy  son  have  a  forest 
monarch  for  his  monument ! 

CARVEK. 

I  cannot  hang  my  son !  Even  your  hard  heart  would 
ask  not  this ! 

CANONICUS. 

Thou  needst  not  hang  him.  Only  adjust  the  rope;  the 
rest  were  easily  done. 

CARVEK  [doing  it]. 
This,  I  will  do ! 

CANONICUS. 

And  this  will  I.  [Severing  the  rope.]  Pale-faces,  I  scorn 
ye.  Ye  who  would  add  fraud  to  murder.  Braves,  this  is 
our  old  friend  Jones,  in  this  man's  son's  attire.  I  knew 
it  from  the  first.  Bear  the  brave  old  man  to  his  home 
with  us.  Death  shall  be  the  portion,  of  all  who  disturb 
him — now  blind  and  deaf,  and  without  speech  in  his  age 
and  sufferings.  Miles  Standish,  this  is  not  good.  Thy 
race  is  doomed.  Such  acts,  then  death.  Pale-faced 
Chief,  thy  honor  is  gone.  Canonicus  would  scorn  to  crush 


4:8  CANONICUS.  [ACT  v. 

such  a  reptile  with  his  foot.    \_Exits.~]    Sasacus  is  in  safety 
now. 

STANDISH. 

Governor,  this  Canonicus  will  ruin  our  settlement.  He 
befriends  all  our  foes.  "We  must  be  rid  of  him ! 

CABVEK. 
Yes,  the  sooner  the  better.     Make  Massassoit  his  foe. 

BRADFORD. 

'Twere  easily  done.  Muntumo,  his  child,  died  with 
them.  Send  peace  and  presents,  too,  to  the  Pequod 
Chief.  Sasacus  will  be  won  over. 

CARVER. 
Miles  Standish,  see  it  be  done  forthwith.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  THIRD. 
Canonicus'  Encampment — Early  dawn. 

[SAMOSACUS  and  NYANA  enter.'] 

SAMOSACUS. 

Fair  Nyana  of  the  Pequods.  Thy  father  is  saved! 
Brave  S  ;s:icus  has  his  home,  and  his  nation  is  at  peace. 
Thou  hast  heard  my  tales  of  my  warlike  tribe,  and  of  the 
bright  waterfall  makes  music  in  my  home — it  is  here. 
Thou  h.ist  heard  my  vows  of  love.  Your  father  gives  thee 
me.  Wilt  thou  not  be  my  bride,  the  light  of  my  home  ? 
I  will  away  to  the  chase  and  bear  the  game.  I  will  to  the 
wars  and  bear  the  trophies,  if  thou  wilt  but  be  my  love ! 


SCENE    III.]  CANONICUS.  49 

NYANA. 

With  a  heart  like  thy  fountain,  brimful  of  trusting  love. 
A  welcome  bright  ever  in  her  eye,  and  warm  in  her  cheek. 
Nyana  will  watch  thy  return  to  thy  home.  Nyana  saw 
Samosacus,  as  she  saw  the  sun  of  life.  Nyana  will  be 
thine. 

SAMOSACUS. 

Come,  then,  to  my  wigwam,  where  the  choicest  skins 
are  spread  for  thy  rest,  and  ere  the  day  is  done  I  will  pro 
claim  thee  my  bride.  [Exeunt. 

[MOINA  enters  decked  as  for  a  bridal,  and  sees  them  as  they 
pass  out.] 

MOINA. 

The  mellow  dawn  has  broken  once  more.  The  bird  of 
morn  is  on  the  wing;  the  loved  music  of  the  waters  gently 
kisses  Moina's  cheek.  Soon  they  will  kiss  her  cheek,  her 
wan,  pale  cheek;  as  she  pillows  it  there,  bathe  her  flushed, 
her  burning  brow.  Cool  this  raging  thirst  at  her  heart, 
and  bear  her  spirit  pure  like  their  spirit  pure  to  the  hunt 
ing-grounds  of  the  blest.  Samosacus  loves  Nyana.  She 
is  fair.  Samosacus  is  dead  to  Moina;  for  Moina  Muntu- 
mo  died.  Moina  now  dies  for  him !  I  will  climb  the  gray 
rock,  where  the  eagle  only  soars.  Bathed  in  a  flood  of 
golden  sunlight,  upon  its  summit  I  will  stand  for  the 
last  time. 

[She  ascends  the  rock — morning  rays  beaming  upon  her.'] 
May  the  Great  Spirit  bless  their  bridal.     May  their 
race  be  without  number.    May  their  glories  glow  forever, 
and  outshine  all  other  tribes. 

CANONICUS  [enters']. 

Moina !  My  Moina !  Canonicus  heard  thy  voice — the 
only  music  to  his  heart !  Where  art  thou  now  ?  Where 


50  CANONICUS.  [ACT  v. 

art  thou  now  ?     Ha !  braves,  see  her  there !     Quick,  seek 
the  path,  unseen  by  her,  and  bear  her  hither.     She  raves. 
She  is  mad — her  voice  hushed.    My  hearth-fire  is  quench 
ed.     .Canonicus  knows  no  home.     Dear  Moina,  my  child 
retrace  thy  steps;  hasten  hither. 

MOINA. 

Like  the  eagle  in  his  swoop,  Moina  seeks   the  pool. 
His  victim,  the  golden  fish — hers,  her  wounded,  broken 
spirit.     Canonicus,  Father,  Moina  comes ! 
[She  springs  into  the  air  and  falls  in  the  pool.     CANONICUS 

rushes  forward  and  drags  her  out  almost  lifeless.] 

CANONICUS. 

My  wounded  deer.  My  gentle  fawn.  Pet  dovelet  of 
my  warrior  heart — thy  hand  is  warm,  thy  brow  is  flushed, 
but  thy  tongue  is  mute,  thine  eye  is  dimmed.  Here  is  no 
breath — thy  bosom  is  still !  Thou  knowest  no  sorrow 
now.  Thou  art  blessed.  Faint  grows  my  strength,  firm 
grow  my  foes  and  many.  My  own  house  is  not  true. 
Samosacus  won  thy  heart,  for  a  fancy  cast  it  away.  He 
seeks  a  stranger  bride  for  his  home.  He  will  find  his 
death,  his  ruin!  Ha,  what  means  this  warrior  shout. 
There  is  a  foe  in  our  camp.  Young  braves,  meet  them 
there.  Canonicus  guards  his  child ! 

[MASSASSOIT  and  warriors  enter.] 

MASSASSOIT. 

Muntumo,  thy  shade  is  here !  Canonicus,  thou  slewest 
my  son.  So  says  my  pale-face  brother ! 

CANONICUS. 

So  saying — he  lies ! 

MASSASSOIT. 

Great  Chief,  you  loved  him  not.  He  sought  the  fair 
Moina.  He  died  at  her  feet.  Samosacus  was  his  foe. 


SCENE    III.]  CANONICUS.  51 

CANONICUS. 

A  father's  bleeding  heart  hearkens  to  every  tale.  Mas- 
sassoit  knows  well  the  Narragansett  Chief.  He  knows  he 
cannot  lie.  'Twas  the  foe  of  our  race  slew  thy  son. 

MASSASSOIT. 

'Twas  ever  so.  You  hnted  the  pale-faces.  They  were 
good  to  the  Mohegans !  They  gave  long  life  to  Massas- 
soit,  and  he  loved  them.  They  are  his  friends.  They 
bade  him  here  find  his  son,  his  heir  I 

CANONICUS. 

So  you  may.  You  away,  I  bore  him  here;  laid  in  state 
until  you  should  come.  My  braves  are  by  his  side — they 
guard  his  couch.  Moini,  my  fair  child,  whom  he  loved,  is 
with  the  flowers;  the  lilies  were  her  death-couch — than 
their  perfume,  her  breath  more  rare.  Muntumo's  last 
minutes  she  soothed.  His  last  words  wcro  to  her.  Her 
last  were  for  him.  Braves,  bring  here  Muntumo.  One 
grave  shall  be  for  both.  Old  chieftain !  my  child  !  [ZH's- 
playing  MOINA.]  Massassoit,  rest  you  here.  A  double 
burial  claims  your  honor. 
[The  Indian  funeral  wail  is  heard.  SAMOSACUS  and  braves 

enter,  bearing  MUNTUMO,  and  lay  him  on  a  hillock  near 

MOINA.] 

SAMOSACUS. 

Brave  Muntumo;  fair  and  dear  Moina.  Ye  now  are 
one.  [To  MUNTUMO].  I  would  my  arrow  had  pierced  thy 
heart.  My  anger  slew  my  love.  I  took  a  strange  bride, 
found  her  false ;  already  has  she  fled,  my  side ! 

CANONICUS. 

Samosacus,  thou  seest  thy  deed !  Was  this  worthy  thee, 
worthy  my  son  ?  Shall  Cauonicus  call  thee  his  ?  Blood- 


52  CANONICUS. 

stained  art  them  in  liis  sight.  Thou  canst  not  paint  so 
thick  but  he  will  see  thy  face  all  gory  with  Moina's  blood. 
Thy  strange  bride  will  prove  thee  false;  thy  strength  will 
fail  thee  'neath  her  arts,  and  thy  name  be  writ  in  water. 
Thou'lt  leave  no  heir;  thy  race  is  done,  and  in  thee  dies 
out  mine.  Hark,  a  warrior  shout  comes  on  the  wind. 
Stand  firm,  my  braves,  all.  If  'tis  foes,  use  thy  arms;  if 
friends,  they  will  share  our  griefs.  Canonicus  guards 
Moina ! 

[Enter  band  of  Pequods  and  whites,  guided  by  NYANA,  who 
retires  unseen  by  Narragansetls.] 

STANDISH. 

Canonicus,  thou  art  our  prisoner!  Our  avowed,  our 
open  foe.  You  have  sent  aid  to  Koger  Williams.  You 
have  given  him  lands;  have  given  a  home  ! 

CANONICUS. 

Is  this  all  ? 

STANDISH. 

Strong  in  braves,  you  wounded  our  honor  by  subvert 
ing  our  laws.  You  taught  evil  lessons  to  our  young.  You 
freed  our  foes.  For  thy  reward,  behold  our  friends  [the 
Pequods].  Dost  thou  not  fear?  [Thunder  heard,] 

CANONICUS. 

Hear'st  thou  that  voice  ?  Aye,  thou  tremblest  at  the 
sound.  Canonicus  knows  its  portent.  In  the  voice  of 
truth,  which  he  has  ever  worshipped,  ever  followed,  Can 
onicus  has  no  fear !  Canonicus  bows' to  no  man ! 

SASACUS  [enters]. 

Samosacus,  where  is  my  child  ?  Young  Manomet  was 
her  brave !  She  had  given  him  her  love,  and  you  stole 
her  from  his  side. 


SCENE    III.]  CANONICUS.  53 

SAMOSACUS. 

Great  Sachem !  Thou  knowest 'tis  fcalse.  My  prisoners 
you  were  taken.  I  saved  your  life.  Her  beauty  touched 
my  heart.  You  bade  me,  could  I  win  her  love,  to  keep 
her  my  bride !  I  wooed  her.  I  won  her,  as  I  thought. 
My  Moina  I  feared  was  fickle,  was  false.  She  is  dead. 
She  is  no  more;  and  Nyana  is  gone ! 

NYANA  [springing forward]. 

Not  so,  Narragansett — fierce  foe  of  my  house.  Nyana 
is  here,  and  Manornet  has  her  love. 

SAMOSACUS. 

Nyana,  art  thou  false?  Thou  stolest  my  heart;  thou 
stolest  my  life.  My  vanquished  foes,  I  gave  ye  freedom. 
Treacherous  friends,  I  know  ye  no  more. 

SASACUS. 

Lying  youth  !  thy  hunts  are  numbered.  Peqnod  war 
riors,  seize  them  all.  Braves  of  pale-face  chief,  join  your 
strength.  Old  wrongs  shall  here  be  settled.  Massassoit, 
they  slew  thy  son.  Muntumo's  spirit  walks  the  gloomy 
shades. 

CANONICUS. 

This  in  my  camp !  Treacherous  foes !  This  at  the 
peaceful  burial  of  our  best  beloved.  Put  up  your  arms 
and  leave  my  home.  Canonicus  ever  honored  yours.  You 
have  no  wrongs.  He  has  many,  but  he  calls  them  not 
from  their  graves.  He  buried  them  long  ago,  and  would 
not  wake  them  into  life.  Ha!  an  arrow  in  the  air;  what 
new  foe  in  our  camp  ?  Braves,  to  arms.  We'll  meet  them 
there,  though  more  in  numbers;  we  yet  are  strong.  Mas 
sassoit,  send  thy  braves;  we  ever  fought  side  by  side.  [Exit. 

MASSASSOIT. 

Massa3soit  has  grown  old.    He  cannot  hear.    The  pale- 


54  CANONICUS.  [ACT  v. 

faces   are   his   friends.    Braves,  join  them;  be  firm  and 

fixed.    Muntumo  is  no  more.    Ye  know  his  fate. 

[Clash  of  arms  and  battle-shouts.      The  Pequods,  Mohegans, 

and  lohites  against  the  Narragansetts  ;   at  length  SAMOSACUS 

falls ;  while  CANONICUS  endeavors   to  shield  him,  y^ung 

CARVEK  stealthily  wound*  CANONICUS.] 
CANONICUS. 

Ha!  is  it  thou?  Where  was  thy  bride?  where  was 
thy  babe,  thy  honor,  to  stay,  thy  sword  has  drunk  the  life- 
blood  of  him  who  once  loved  thee  well.  [To  MASSASSOIT.] 
Old  chief,  my  voice  is  faint,  and  though  thy  ear  grows  deaf, 
and  thine  eye  is  dim,  Canonicus  bids  thee  beware  of  false 
friends.  Many  moons  now  gone,  we  were  at  peace,  but  the 
winged  canoes  touched  our  shores.  'Twas  an  ill-omened 
bird !  The  pale-faces  sought  our  lands.  They  poisoned  our 
waters,  they  wasted  our  forests,  they  slew  our  game,  de 
stroyed  our  shell -fish.  Our  corn  has  failed,  and  we  are  poor. 
Canonicus  told  you  this.  Canonicus  loved  them  not,  but  still 
he  was  their  friend.  'Tis  for  this  they  have  stolen  his  life. 
'Twas  little  worth;  his  Moina  with  the  flowers  His  Sam- 
osacus  a  stricken  oak.  His  race  is  done,  and  so  with  thine 
aged  chief.  Muntumo  no  more.  Bear  him  here  by  my 
side;  lay  Samosacus  at  our  feet,  with  Moina,  darling, in 
my  arms;  last  of  his  race,  Canonicus  dies.  But  accursed 
be  this  spot  to  the  pale-faces.  The  richest  of  a  thousand 
hills,  with  the  sweetest  waters  in  the  land,  they  shall  weep 
themselves  out  for  Moina  in  bitter  tears,  which  evermore 
shall  parch  the  thirsty  lip. 

A  thousand  deer  have  fattened  here  and  fallen.  Not  a 
blade  shall  it  ever  bear,  for  the  false  pale-faces'  use.  My 
curse  is  on  it. 

Canonicus,  the  last  of  the  Narragansetts,  is  avenged! 

[He  swoons  and  dies,  and  curtain  falls  to  slow  music.] 

FINIS. 


POEMS. 


POEMS. 

TO  DEAR  MOTHER. 

1833. 

WHY  will  ye  all  be  so  gloomy  and  sad 

When  smiling,  our  dear  mother  earth  looks  so  glad, 

When  the  fish  in  the  lake  swims  gaily  on, 

And  the  lark  sings  on  high,  her  matin  song. 

Leave  sorrow  for  winter — 'tis  the  spring-time  of  year, 
When  earth's  scenes  are  gay — their  heavens  are  clear, 
When  the  twittering  birds  teach  their  young  how  to  fly, 
And  on  their  light  pinions,  soar  off  to  the  sky. 

Then  teach  ye  your  young,  by  gladness  and  cheer, 
Their  lot,  if  a  sad  one,  with  light  heart  to  bear, 
That  on  virtue's  wings  they  may  safely  fly, 
And  reach,  at  the  last,  a  haven  on  high. 

That  as  fall's  piercing  winds  and  winter's  chill  blasts 
Fall  sharp  on  the  ear,  while  we  know  they'll  not  last, 
And  as  spring-time  will  come  and  flowers  will  bloom, 
So  pleasures  and  griefs  are  man's  lot  to  the  tomb. 


ON    MOTHER'S  DEATH. 

SEPTEMBEB,  1873. 

THERE'S  rare  joy  on  high,  aye,  rich  joy  in  Heaven, 
Bright  angels  have  welcom'd,  their  sister  was  given, 

(57) 


58  POEMS. 

To  cheer  this  dark  earth,  with  its  siruj  and  its  fears; 

Lo !  she's  wreathed  in  smiles,  while  we're  bathed  in  tears. 

Mourn  not,  fond  Sisters,  Father,  proud  in  love,  kneel, 
And  bowing  thy  head,  in  humility  feel, 
Though  'reft  from  us  here,  the  flower  was  given, 
Blooms  with  rare  beauty  in  the  bright  courts  of  Heaven. 

So  lovely  by  nature,  so  gentle  to  aH, 
Why  marvel,  the  angels  our  dear  Mother  call, 
Her  voice  of  the  spheres — ever  gracious  her  ways; 
She  shone,  upon  earth,  one  of  Heaven's  bright  rays. 

Weep  not,  fond  Father,  but  on  those  she  loved 
Lavish  the  tenderness  you  ever  showed 
To  our  dear  mother,  thy  youth's  chosen  bride. 
The  cherished  of  Heaven,  thy  jewel,  thy  pride. 

There's  rare  joy  on  high,  aye,  rich  joy  in  Heaven, 
Bright  angels  have  welcom'd,  their  sister  was  given 
To  cheer  this  dark  world,  with  its  sins  and  its  cares, 
The  wreath  of  her  smiles  gems  penitent  tears. 


THE   SHEPHEKD. 
1833. 

THE  Shepherd,  low  reclining  on  the  sward, 
Surrounded  by  his  gentle,  bleating  sheep, 
Doth  seem  the  very  prince  of  indolence, 
But  nature's  wonders  never  let  him  sleep. 

Unto  the  mind  of  him,  thus  simple,  seems 
The  world  affords  far  many  a  happier  dream 


POEMS.  59 

Than  crowded  paves,  or  converse  of  the  great, 
Which  on  man's  brow  but  seldom  casts  a  beam. 

E'en  then  its  rays  do  blister  where  they  touch, 

And  in  the  whirl  which  rages  in  his  brain, 

He  learns  that  honors  are  not  easily  won, 

That  riches,  power,  pride,  are  all  in  vain, 

That  none  but  waters  from  Heaven's  pure  springs  flow, 

Bring  to  the  toiling  spirit  a  healthful  glow. 


LINCOLN'S  ACT  OF  FREEDOM. 

His  own,  his  presence — His  an  eagle  eye, 

Far  peering  into  futurity. 

His  mind  a  marvel,  as  the  age  he  lived. 

His  virtues  great.     His  wondrous  worth  unknown. 

Perfection  rare,  childlike  simplicity, 

He  reared  a  fame,  so  monumental 

That  it  fills  the  world  :  high  over  all 

Save  him,  our  Washing-ton — his  only  Peer. 

One  wrung  from  despot,  freedom  for  our  land. 

One  burst  the  bonds  of  slavery  bound  her  sons, 

And  with  prophetic  ken,  made  them  the  equals  of  all 

fellow-men. 

The  act  which  wrought  it,  was  by  Heaven  inspired ; 
The  sages  of  the  land  in  council  met, 
Faltered  in  giving  to  the  world,  the  words 
Bore  to  oppressed,  the  boon  of  Freedom. 
With  eye  uplifted,  clasped  hands,  he  prayed: 
"  Teach  me,  my  God,  what  best  to  do  " — is  heard — 
"  Sages,  I  give  it  to  the  world  " — he  said, 
Rebellion  prostrate  laid — 

Slavery  forever  dead. 


60  POEMS. 


LINCOLN. 

APRIL,  1865. 

ABOUND  his  bier  they  stand, 

Our  Hero's  chosen  troop, 
The  leaders  of  his  famous  band: 

A  sad,  a  silent  group. 

No  whitened  tent-sail  now 

Flaps  in  the  swelling  gale, 
But  round  his  death-couch  bow 

Hearts  never  known  to  quail. 

The  proudest  trophy  man 

Can  ever  boast  on  earth, 
The  highest  honors  ever  worn 

Born  of  an  earthly  birth, — 

All,  all  are  his — his  own, 
Earth  hath  no  more  to  give; 

He  is  marching  on  to  his  life-won  home, 
Where  only  the  "  chosen  "  live. 


HAMILTON. 

1833. 

NEVIS,  thou  lonely  sea-girt  island,  where 

The  softest  music  is  old  ocean's  roar, 

And  the  loud  thunder,  with  sharp  lightning's  glare 

In  awful  grandeur,  fills  the  quaking  air. 

He  was  indeed  thy  child,  firm  as  thy  rock 

Amidst  the  raging  sea,  fixed  was  his  soul 

In  noblest  principles — his  nature  even 

As  the  elements  are,  pure  as  high  heaven. 


POEMS.  Gl 

Their  spirit  dwelt  in  him;  when  but  boy 

He  stretched  his  longing  eyes  out  on  the  main, 

And  sought  his  home  in  a  far  distant  land, 

Where  'gainst  oppression's  justly  hated  hand, 

Noble  and  free  in  nature,  like  their  own  wilds, 

Brooking  no  tyrant's  sway  ;  fore'er  to  strive, 

No  toil — all  danger  dare — no  death,  to  die, 

Men  warred  for  their  homes,  and  liberty. 

He  yet  but  boy,  saw  what  it  was  they  sought, 

He  told  them  where  to  seek — and  taught  them  well, 

That  ne'er  a  smile  was  won  by  suppliant  knee; 

But  that  the  heart  must  brave  and  noble  be, 

Upon  whose  brow  the  light  of  liberty 

Brightly  would  shine.     That  vestal  flame, 

Unguarded,  it  would  flicker,  fade  and  fall, 

And  Tyrants'  chains,  ignoble  souls  enthrall. 

His  thoughts  were  like  to  the  resistless  wind, 

Unseen,  yet  felt,  wherever  they  were  turned. 

Like  earth's  great  source  of  light,  burnt  with  fierce  flame, 

Love  in  his  bosom,  for  his  country's  fame. 

Mighty  his  mind — his  memory  never  failed, 

A  storehouse,  where  in  seemly  order  laid 

Rare  gems,  collected  from  all  wealthiest  mines, 

Rich  fruits  of  learning,  from  each  age,  each  clime. 

In  nature,  as  the  ermine  pure,  ever  the  same 

To  the  world's  mendicants,  or  the  sons  of  fame. 

Whe'n  he  was  "  taken  off  "  his  mourners  were  the  world ! 

All  nations  wept.     His  murderer's  name  was  told 

Where'er  he  walked.     The  air,  burden'd  with  his  blood, 

Speeding,  to  all,  that  dread  deed  did  unfold. 

A  fugitive  from  his  outraged  land, 

Seared  on  his  brow  the  assassin's  brand, 

Burr's  stealthy  step  was  heard  on  great  France's  floor, 

"  Admit  him,"  said  Prince  Talleyrand — but  say — 


62  POEMS. 

"  Hamilton  is  my  household  god  " — 

"  His  image  guards  my  door."  * 
Abashed,  Burr  skulked  away,  never  to  cross  it  more. 


NAPOLEON  AND  HAMILTON. 

THE  mightiest  men  whom  this  great  age  hath  known, 

Were  born  in  islands,  'neath  an  ardent  sun; 

In  their  rare  natures — his  pure  essence  burn'd. 

Scarce  in  their  teens  when  life  had  but  begun, 

One,  sought  by  arms  and  war  to  rule  the  world; 

The  other,  by  great  knowledge  yet  untold. 

One  lived  the  fear  and  terror  of  mankind, 

And  dying,  left  a  bloody  fame  behind. 

The  other  lived  honored  and  loved  by  all, 

Wept  by  the  great  and  good,  his  early  fall. 

Both  born  in  islands,  girded  by  the  deep  ; 

Both  roused  the  world  from  its  lethargic  sleep. 

Napoleon  lies  in  Les  Invalides'  tomb, 

While  bloody  memories  mourn  his  fearful  doom; 

Hamilton  lives  where  praises  never  cease, 

Crowned  with  the  laurels  of  the  arts  of  Peace. 


SONNET. 

"  CONTENTMENT."        OCTOBER,  1839. 

As  through  the  sky,  thy  even  ways  thou  takest, 
Lighted,  but  not  impeded  by  the  stars, 


*  When  the  great  minister  of  France,  Prince  Talleyrand,  took 
leave  of  Hamilton  at  his  residence,  "  The  Grange,"  Hamilton  took 
from  his  mantel  his  miniature,  and  presented  it  to  the  Prince  as 
his  parting  gift.  This  he  so  highly  prized,  that  he  ever  kept  it 
suspended  over  the  mantel  of  his  hall  in  his  palace  in  Paris.  Burr 
called  there,  but  at  this  warning,  skulked  away,  abashed. 


POEMS.  63 

So  may  I,  most  sweet  moon,  my  journey  make 

'Mid  men,  whose  wondrous  deeds  shall  shine  afar. 

Unheeded  and  unenvied,  may  my  days 

Be  on  the  bosom  of  contentment  borne  ; 

Not  free  from  care,  for  then  my  "  Maker's  "  ways 

Might  be  forgot,  and  I  indeed  forlorn. 

But  as  the  lark  doth  usher  in  the  day, 

With  thankful  carols  urging  on  mankind, 

So  might  I  know  the  true  poetic  lay 

That  cheereth  on,  and  leaveth  care  behind: 

Then  would  I  deem  that  I  was  truly  blest, 

Then  might  I  say,  contentment  I  possessed. 


SONNET. 

To  GRIEF. 

Is  there  no  haven  from  thy  sea,  oh  grief  ? 

Boundless  and  ceaseless  as  old  ocean's  roar 

Are  thy  assaults  ?     Is  there  no  shore 

Whereon  my  bark  may  lie  and  find  relief 

From  thy  fierce  storms  ?   Oh !  beams  there  not  above 

Some  Pilot  Star  whereon  the  eye  in  Faith 

Fixed  firmly,  as  voice  within  now  saith, 

May  see  a  parent,  find  forbearing  love  ? 

Oh,  thou  Great  Being — let  Thy  saving  grace 

Heal  the  deep  wounds  my  anguished  bosom  wears, 

And  give  me  strength  Thy  gracious  will  to  bear. 

Teach  me,  O  Lord,  that  I  a  worthy  face 

Present — that  thus  those  seem  so  hard  to  me 

May  be  accepted  as  kind  gifts  from  Thee. 


64  POEMS. 

TO  MY  AUNT,  SUSAN  A.  GIBBES. 
1837. 

LADY,  I  know  not  which  the  most  to  praise, 
Thy  gentle  manners  and  thy  winning  ways, 
Or  the  bright  jewels  which  adorn  the  scene, 
Where,  with  a  mother's  love,  thou  reignest  supreme. 

Eome's  noble  matron  to  Campania's  dame, 
Asking  her  jewels  bright,  felt  pride,  not  shame, 
To  say  she  owned  110  baubles,  rich  and  rare, 
But  that  her  sons  were  the  sole  gems  she'd  wear. 

So  may'st  thou  to  the  brow  of  beauty  turn, 
That  brow,  where  deep-read  sages  yet  may  learn, 
Or  on  the  damask  cheek  where  blooms  the  rose 
Which  fadeth  only,  when  with  jest  it  glows. 

As  on  the  face,  seraphic  of  thy  child, 

Which  doth  in  innocence  long  hours  beguile, 

That  lovely  prattler,  in  her  face  we  see 

What  most  we've  learnt  to  love,  dear  Aunt,  in  thee. 

All  I  have  felt,  and  feel,  I  may  not  tell; 
'Tis  not  the  sparkling  stream,  you  know  full  well, 
Hideth  the  rarest  gems,  tho'  oft  I  slothful  seem, 
Dear  Aunt,  for  thee,  do  my  heart's  jewels  gleam. 


THE  BUCKWHEAT  FLOWER. 

FKOM  thy  sweet  blossom  doth  the  buzzing  bee 
Draw  purest  of  its  much-loved  honied  juice, 

The  autumn  air  is  fragrant  made  by  thee; 
The  yeoman  revels  in  thy  promised  use. 


POEMS.  65 

Earth  in  her  waning  years  now  blooms  again 
In  the  pure  beauty  of  her  spring-time  days. 

Ye  vestal  flowers,  from  your  verdant  fanes 
Win  from  departing  warblers  new-born  lays. 

Ye  now  call  forth  more  music  from  the  mill, 
Its  wonted  song  else  hush'd,  as  o'er  the  rocks 

Returned  to  nature's  ways,  the  sparkling  rill 
Sweet  measure  marks  for  the  gamboling  flocks. 

Nor  doth  thy  usefulness  here  cease ;  to  thee 
The  cheek  of  beauty  owes  its  rosy  hue, 

The  arm  of  youth  less  powerful  would  be; 

That  all  things  have  their  use,  thou  teachest  is  true. 


TO  MARY  L- 


On  hearing  of  her  approaching  nuptials,  induced  to  wed  against 
her  will. 

STAY,  stay  these  horrid  nuptials; 

Unholy  rites  are  these; 
Only  where  heart  to  heart  is  joined, 

Does  wedlock  Heaven  please. 

Oh !  lady,  thou  art  sad  and  pale ! 

Fear  harbors  not  with  love, 
Think  you,  if  now  thy  heart  doth  quail, 

Thy  future  '11  joyous  prove  ? 

No,  no,  trust  not  that  cheating  hope, 

Look  on  thy  heart  and  see, 
If  other  image  dearer  still, 

Is  cherished  not  by  thee. 


66  POEMS. 

Oh  !  lady,  life  thou  knowest  not  yet, 

Tlio'  sorrow  thou  hast  known; 
For  where's  the  bird,  whose  wings  unwet, 

O'er  whom  no  cloud  hath  flown? 

Many  an  hour  shall  take  its  hue 
From  that  in  which  thou'rt  wed  ; 

Oh,  better  than  these  heartless  rites 
Be  with  the  early  dead. 

As  thou  shalt  take  thy  earthly  lord, 

So  shall  thy  journey  be, 
On  love's  wings,  soaring  far  and  wide, 

Serene  be  land  and  sea. 

On  storm-cloud  borne,  but  ills  and  strife 

Shall  mark  thy  darkened  way, 
Tis  but  a  gleam  now  lights  thy  life : 

One  gleam,  ere  darksome  day. 

Wealth,  vain  and  glittering  wealth, 

Pomp  and  its  heartless  suite 
May  shine,  may  fawn,  and  win  thy  eye; 

Can  it  thy  heart's  need  meet? 

Much  is  there  now  to  gild  the  scene, 

Words  kind,  smiles  sweet,  hopes  bright, 
But  change's  finger  '11  touch,  I  ween, 
The  fairest  earthly  sight. 

Words  kind,  diamonds  'midst  sands  shall  shine, 

Smiles  sweet,  as  rays  shall  be, 
To  miners  who've  for  ages  delved 

Far  underneath  the  sea. 


POEMS.  67 

Hopes  bright  thou'lt  chase,  but  chase  in  vain, 

As  phantom  barks  they'll  be; 
Nought  but  phosphoric  lights  they'll  shine 

About  thy  gloomy  sea. 

Stay,  stay  these  horrid  nuptials, 

There's  one  who  loves  thee  well, 
And  who,  I  know,  dwells  in  thy  heart, 

Let  this  thought  break  the  spell. 

For  spell  it  is,  full  well  I  know, 

Thy  fancy  is  too  bright, 
To  robe  that  dark-eyed  man  as  once 

Thou  saidst,  thy  love  was  dight. 

Then  stay  these  horrid  nuptials, 

Thou  must  not  wed  to-night, 
'Twere  better  bear  his  bitter  curse, 

Than  live  to  loathe  his  sight. 

Stay,  stay  these  horrid  nuptials, 

They  may  not,  must  not  be; 
No,  no,  I'd  rather  hear  that  bell 

Sound  its  last  knell  for  thee. 

Then  would  sweet  flowers  deck  thy  grave, 

The  rosemary  there  would  bloom, 
And  friends  would  mourn  a  spirit  blest, 

When  weeping  o'er  thy  tomb. 

Not  sigh  for  hours,  in  grief  spun  out, 

E'en  to  a  sightless  thread, 
But  cheered,  that  thou  to  "  home"  hadst  flown, 

Home  of  the  happy  dead. 


68  POEMS. 

TO  MISS  ,  A  FAIK  PIANIST. 

AUGUSTA  GIBBES,  1841. 

Too  weak  are  words  thy  worth  to  tell, 
Thy  wondrous  arts  to  please. 

Oh !  nothing  e'er  can  break  the  spell 
Or  cause  these  throbs  to  cease. 

Lovely  Euterpe,  with  thy  lyre 
Thou'st  kindled  into  flame 

"What  was  till  then  a  smouldering  fire, 
A  sense  without  a  name. 

'Twas  rapture  sweet — a  fond  desire, 

To  linger  about  thee; 
Oh,  with  the  art,  my  soul  inspire, 

Can  make  you  think  of  me. 


TO 


WHY  wilt  thou  be  more  cruel  than  the  moon, 
So  long  thy  charms  concealing  from  my  view, 

'Tis  but  one  night  since  she  on  earth  did  shine, 
While  weeks  have  flown  since  I  gazed  on  you. 

Is  it  that  brighter  after  storms,  the  scene 

That  thus  from  view,  thy  beauties  thou  dost  veil  ? 

Oh,  pity  thy  poor  slave,  angelic  queen, 
Lest  his  weak  sight  before  thy  brightness  faiL 

Like  wearied  mariner  on  storm-tossed  sea, 
I've  stretched  in  vain  my  longing  gaze, 

I  know  no  star  in  all  the  world  but  thee 

Can  guide  me  safely  on  life-chequer'd  ways. 


POEMS.  09 

'Tis  said,  with  love  tliou  dost  regard  mankind, 
I  ask  not  that  on  me  thou  thus  wilt  look; 

All  that  I  beg  is,  I  a  smile  may  find 

To  soothe  a  heart,  long  absence  cannot  brook. 


TO    MISS    I.    L. 

OCTOBER,    1840. 

AH  !  should  we  meet,  ten  cycles  hence, 
How  many  the  tale  we'll  have  to  tell, 
Of  parted  joys,  of  blasted  hopes, 

Methinks  such  meeting  were  not  well. 

« 

Yes,  yes,  we'll  meet,  and  gazing  here 

Upon  the  unchanged  scene, 
Learn  what  old  Time  has  done  for  us 

While  we  have  wanderers  been. 

If  parted  we  are  doomed  to  rove, 

The  flowers  of  life  be  thine; 
If  thorns  shall  strew  my  path,  may  Heaven 

On  your  blest  spirit  shine. 


THE  BROOK. 

'Tis  the  laugh  of  the  mountain, 

The  song  of  the  vale, 
The  life  of  the  fountain, 

It  sweetens  the  gale. 

It  cheers  the  bold  brigand 
To  high,  daring  deeds; 


70  POEMS. 

It  alone  cools  bis  thirst 
When  wounded,  he  bleeds. 

'Tis  the  harp  for  love's  story 
When  told  to  the  maid, 

His  life  and  his  glory 

In  the  valley's  green  shade. 

'Tis  the  wood's  infant  murmur, 
When  the  warring  storm's  gone, 

E'er  to  sweet  shades  of  summer 
Feathered  warblers  have  flown. 

» 
'Tis  the  type  of  man's  life, 

In  purity  born, 
Hastening  on  in  wild  strife 

Its  bosom  is  torn. 

Till  the  valley  is  reached, 
Where  with  breath  of  rose 

'Mid  the  music  of  heaven 
To  ocean  it  flows. 

That  ocean  where  mingle 
The  sad  and  the  gay; 

The  sluggish,  the  sparkling, 
All  take  the  same  way; 

To  where  the  bright  sunbeam 

Shines  out  upon  all, 
And  they  dance  in  His  sight, 

Or  shrink  from  His  call. 


POEMS.  71 

ON    THE    CONSECEATION    OF    "ST.   ANN'S" 
CHUECH,   MOEEISIANA. 

EKECTED  BY  GOUVEKNETJK  MOREIS,  1840. 

'TWAS  rightly  done,  dear  friend, 
Thy  work  proclaims  thy  praise, 

Louder  than  loudest  terms  could  speak, 
Men  are  judged  by  their  ways. 

Here,  'neath  this  simple  dome, 

Lies  she  who  best  loved  thee; 
It  is  the  holiest,  meetest  tomb 

O'er  a  mother  reared  could  be. 

"While  by  her  side,  he  lies, 

Thy  Father,  son  of  Fame, 
Who  in  his  country's  heart  will  dwell 

While  Freedom  has  a  name. 

Long  may  you  live  to  hear 

The  heavenly  anthems  rise, 
And  when  in  green  old  age  you  part, 

Soar  on  them  to  the  skies. 


THE  HUDSON  EIVEE. 

1838. 

THE  sea  hath  had  man's  worship,  and  the  sun, 
The  moon  which  doth  'mid  myriad  beauties  run 
Her  even  course,  and  the  bright  beaming  stars 
Unchanged  amid  Nature's  raging  wars, 


72  POEMS. 

Have  each  in  due  turn,  and  most  justly  won 
Praise  from  admiring  poets,  old  and  young, 
In  lute-like  madrigals. 

But  who  hath  sung 

Thy  beauties,  noble  stream  ?     These  woods  have  rung 
With  thy  just  praises,  only  nature  wild 
Could  sound  them  meetly — thou  the  rarest  child 
Of  this  famed  wilderness.     Naught  but  the  mind 
Thy  loveliness  can  scan.     Language  would  bind 
Into  too  narrow  span  all  that  it  sees, 
Thy  myriad  tongues  thy  praise — no  words  could  please. 


SONNET. 

FAITH.  OCTOBER,  1839. 

LIKE  to  the  loveliest  hour  of  the  day, 

The  early  dawn,  which  chaseth  night  away, 

With  all  its  darkling  beauties,  "  Faith,"  art  thou. 

The  wounded  spirit  unto  thee  doth  bow, 

As  doth  the  fevered  brain  to  sweet  dawn's  glow, 

After  deep  anguish;  though  we  feel  it  flows, 

Like  the  pure  spring,  to  which  the  galled  hart  flees, 

Bearing  death's  arrows,  or  sane  as  bracing  breeze. 

Thou  art  the  North  Star  of  the  world's  wanderers, 

The  sweet  moon  worshipped  by  the  longing  lover 

Who  thinketh  on  her  not  as  of  earth's  dreams, 

But  as  the  mirror  where  loved  image  beams. 

Blest  are  all  those  who  when  Life's  labor's  o'er, 

In  faith  have  known  what  Heaven  hath  in  store. 


POEMS.  73 

SONNET. 
To  THE   OAK.       OCTOBEK,  1839. 

THE  year  is  in  the  seer  and  yellow  leaf, 

Now  winter's  whistlers  coursing  through  the  air, 

The  spring's  sweet  warblers  wont  the  heart  to  cheer 

From  verdant  boughs  of  joyous  homes  bereave. 

Thus  spring  on  spring,  winter's  chill  footsteps  chase, 

Thus  leaf  on  leaf,  the  fall  demands  of  thee 

Oh,  dauntless  oak. 

Give  me  thy  heart,  oh  tree  ! 
That  I  may  be  the  marvel  of  my  race, 
Never  borne  down  by  blasts  or  mighty  gales, 
But  nourished  by  adversity  and  strife 
In  mighty  deeds,  that  other  mortals  pale, 
Each  season  of  my  days  may  be  more  rife. 
Thus  do  I  worship  thee,  thou  brave  old  oak, 
That  I  may  learn,  like  thee,  to  bear  Time's  yoke. 


As  on  a  star,  the  gentle  boy 

In  mute  astonishment  doth  gaze, 
Unequal  in  that  hour  of  joy, 

The  beauties  of  the  sky  to  praise  ; 
So,  lady,  on  thy  lovely  face 

In  silent  wonder  gaze  I,  e'er 
Too  weak  to  read  the  matchless  grace, 

Soul  of  such  lineaments  doth  wear. 


74  POEMS. 

TO  ELIZABETH. 
OCTOBER,  1842. 

THEY  say  like  life  is  young  Love's  dream, 
Now  sunshine  and  now  storm, 

That  shades  will  flit  o'er  brightest  scene, 
That  man's  to  sadness  born. 

Oh,  dearest,  let  us  prove  through  life 
That  sorrow  brings  a  balm, 

That  fiercest  gale  which  bears  us  on 
Is  herald  of  the  calm. 

In  love  as  life,  God  sends  the  test, 

Shall  try,  if  true  we  are 
Proved  faithful,  we  shall  sure  be  blest, 

Let  this  trust  be  our  star. 


TO  ELIZABETH. 
APEIL,  1843. 

OH,  tell  me,  love,  I  pray  thee, 
What  care  afflicts  you  now  ? 

My  once  loved  voice  shall  cheer  thee, 
And  chase  it  from  thy  brow. 

Upon  the  fragrant  myrtle 

The  owlets  never  rest, 
But  'mid  its  boughs  the  turtle 

E'er  builds  her  downy  nest 

The  golden  cloud  o'erhangs  thee, 
Drops  not  a  single  tear, 


POEMS.  75 

Thy  beauty  doth  upbraid  thee 
That  you  this  frown  wilt  wear. 

But  where's  the  bird  whose  wing's  unwet, 

O'er  whom  no  cloud  hath  flown  ? 
One  smile,  dear  love,  and  I'll  forget 

Thy  brow  this  shade  hath  known. 


TO  ELIZABETH. 

FAIREST  and  best  of  the  daughters  of  earth, 
Whose  smile  has  for  me  than  Peri  more  worth — 
Thou  who  dost  shine  as  the  stars  do  in  Heaven, 
Gilding  the  shades  that  steal  o'er  her  at  even. 


TRUE  LOVE. 

HE  long  had  loved  her  dearly, 
Yet  never  dared  to  woo  ; 

Her  smile  he  thought  betoken'd 
"  This  lip  is  not  for  you." 

He  loved  her  as  the  infant  loves 
The  starry  hosts  on  high  ; 

But  in  his  wonder  never  dared 
To  breathe  for  her  a  sigh. 

Their  voices  mingled  oft  in  song- 
Their  hands  had  often  met ; 

Yet  still  he  never  dared  to  speak, 
Lest  she'd  say,  "  Go,  forget ! " 


76  POEMS. 


A  rose  she  wore  upon  her  breast. 
She  placed  on  his,  one  eve — 

He  told  his  love,  her  hand  she  gave  ; 
That  gift  did  never  grieve. 


TO  A  VERY  DEAR  FKIEND. 

As  the  pure  moon  on  misty  eve  doth  shine 

With  veiled  loveliness,  so  glows  the  light 
Of  a  chaste  soul,  through  that  dark  eye  of  thine. 

Though  I  love  day,  I  better  love  such  night. 
As  on  thy  face,  a  heaven  of  beauty, 

Through  which  the  graces  of  thy  spirit  shine, 
I  gaze  in  wonderment,  I  kneel  in  duty 

Bound,  and  worship  at  the  glorious  outer  shrine — 
Too  deep,  too  pure — the  inner  such  as  I 

Should  bow  to  ;  for,  oh !  too  much  light 
Would  blind  my  grovelling  sight,  and  with  a  sigh 

I'd  turn,  by  self  rebuked,  to  endless  night. 
Oh !  may  I  kneeling,  at  the  outer  shrine, 

Hope  that  the  inner's  office  may  be  mine. 


TO 


NAY,  why  so  downcast?     Must  thy  radiant  eye 

And  laughing  lip  of  rose's  tint  be  fixed 

As  thus  you  listless  gaze  on  vacancy  ? 

Oh !  for  one  smile,  away  the  shade  to  chase 

Traced  on  thy  face  of  beauty.     Friends  must  part, 

E'en  death  may  mark  the  bounds — then  wherefore  weep — 

The  barb,  we  know,  sank  deep  in  thy  fond  heart, 

But  'tis  Love's  part  to  hold  in  its  own  depths 


POEMS.  77 

The  swelling  waters.     Then  let  smiles  once  more 
Light  on  those  left — the  true,  the  tried,  the  fond — 
Who  rise  bright  beacons  on  Life's  rugged  shore, 
Shall  in  all  trials  prove  the  stoutest  bonds, 
In  hours  of  joy,  thy  joys  the  brighter  make, 
In  hours  of  grief,  from  grief  its  sting  shall  take. 


TO  CARE  OPPRESSING  A  DEAR  FRIEND. 

AWAY,  oh,  care !  why  wilt  thou  haunt  him  thus  ? 
He  has  not  wronged  thee,  or  in  thought  or  deed. 
Thou  canst  not  say  he  warred  against  Man's  peace  ; 
This  fierce  assault  'gainst  his,  I  pray  thee  cease — 
Has  he  been  cruel  or  unkind  to  thine  ? 
Has  he  not  raised  the  fallen  from  the  earth  ? 
Has  he  not  shared  his  trifle  with  the  poor, 
Or  'gainst  the  hungry  has  he  closed  his  door  ? 
Has  he  not  borne  the  taunts  and  scoffs  of  men  ? 
Has  he  not  suffered  from  sharp  tooth  of  want  ? 
Has  he  been  loved  by  her  who  was  his  pride  ? 
That  thus  thou'st  sworn,  for  aye,  to  be  his  bride  ; 
Or  is  it,  that  thou  fondly  lovest  him  so, 
With  his  life's  course  thou  ceaselessly  wilt  flow  ? 


TO  E.  S.  N. 
1842. 

I  KNOW  not  whereto  I  should  liken  thee, 
For  thou,  of  all  things,  fairest  art  to  me. 
Thy  beauties,  as  the  moon's  creation  fills, 
My  world  of  thought  with  fairer  yet  instils; 


78  POEMS. 

The  stars  are  fleeting,  ever  changing  hosts. 

No  fleeting  charms,  rny  dearest,  dost  thou  boast; 

Earth's  flowers,  sweet  with  perfume  fill  the  air; 

Yet  is  thy  breath  a  myriad  times  more  rare. 

The  air  with  countless  melodies  abounds, 

And  yet  with  naught  like  thy  sweet  voice  resounds. 

The  sparkling  waves  the  brightest  gems  do  wear, 

And  yet  are  dim  to  the  bright  orbs  you  bear. 

Oh !  thou  art  to  me,  as  to  earth,  the  sun, 

Causing  all  griefs  my  joyous  heart  to  shun. 


TO  THE  ATHEIST. 

WE  are  born;  we  laugh,  we  weep, 
We  live,  love,  hate,  then  die; 

'Tis  the  song  of  all !     Wherefore  so  ? 
Who  can  tell  ?    Alas,  not  I ! 

ANSWER. 

Turn,  erring  mortal,  to  thy  Lord, 
Thy  Maker,  and  thy  Master's  will; 

Study  and  ponder  well  His  Word, 
Thou'lt  find  the  place  thou  hast  to  filL 


THE  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

AT  THE  VILLAGE  CHURCH,  1840. 

HERE  saw  I  thee  in  bloom  of  youth, 
In  flush  of  beauty  and  of  pride; 

Here  heard  I  first  the  Word  of  Truth; 
Here  gazed  I  on  my  bride. 


POEMS.  79 

Here  have  we  e'er  from  year  to  year 

Our  Sabbaths  passed  together; 
Nor  have  we  ever  wanted  cheer, 

Though  stormy  was  life's  weather. 

When  sad,  I've  seen  thy  cheerful  smile, 

Thy  inerry  voice  e'er  heard, 
And  they  my  gloomiest  hours  beguiled, 

As  his  mate's  song,  the  bird, 

Yes,  ever  when  I've  bowed  beneath 

The  heavy  blows  of  care, 
You  taught  me  that  our  God  bequeathes 

The  lot  'tis  best  to  bear. 


TO  E.  S.  N. 

LADY,  take  thou  this  token, 
From  one  who  fain  would  tell, 

Ere  his  poor  heart  be  broken, 
The  pains  it  knows  too  well. 

Thy  smile  could  chase  this  gloom 
O'ershadows  now  my  brow, 

And  with  the  flow'rets'  bloom, 
Cause  this  pale  cheek  to  glow. 


TO  E.  S.  N. 

As  I  dreamt  in  my  boyhood  of  beauty, 
To  my  fancy  so  bright  shone  each  charm, 

That  I  believed  it  to  be  my  first  duty 

Ne'er  to  love,  lest  the  trait'ress  might  harm. 


80  POEMS. 

But  alas,  though  with  sentinel  care 

I  watched  my  poor  heart,  it  would  love. 

I  can  guard  it  no  longer — oh,  share 

In  my  joy,  and  my  own  "  true  love  "  prove. 


TO  A  CLOUD. 

WHY  mov'st  thou  so  majestically  proud, 
Robed  in  the  panoply  of  night,  oh  cloud  ? 
Like  a  fam'd  monarch  to  earth's  gifts  most  bright, 
Thy  beauties  owing,  lovely  in  thy  might. 

A  royal  diadem  of  myriad  stars 
Rests  on  thy  beaming  brow  in  nature's  wars, 
Most  stern,  yet  still  most  beautifid  art  thou; 
Though  evanescent  as  yon  glorious  bow. 

Art  thou  thus  e'er  in  purple  deck'd,  laced 
With  golden  light,  never  with  dark  robes  graced  ? 
Dost  thou  demand  the  heart  shall  but  adore; 
Comest  thou  ne'er  to  fill  the  mind  with  awe  ? 

Shall  not  the  deep-drawn  tears  with  which  thou  greetest 
The  parched  earth,  nursing  its  flowery  sweets, 
Soften  man's  heart,  while  thro'  life's  varied  vale, 
Down  time's  swift  troubled  stream  he  onward  sails  ? 

'Tis  not  unmoved.     Thy  voice  is  thunder, 
Opposed  with  lightning-flash,  asunder 
Ah1  is  rent,  when  on  thy  beauteous  course, 
Thou'rt  borne,  on  winds  resistless  horsed. 


POEMS.  81 


Wliile  on  thy  beauties  lingering  I  look, 
Thought  will  take  wings,  and  jealous  cannot  brook 
That  fleeting  vapors  should  obey  His  will, 
While  I,  His  image,  am  rebellious  still. 


TO  E. 

LOVE  thee  ?  Do  I  love  the  stars,  * 
Those  winged  handmaids  of  the  moon, 

Whose  sweeping  train  they  bear  afar 
Their  seeming  labor,  dearest  boon. 

Love  thee  ?    Do  I  love  the  sky 

Robed  in  cerulean  blue, 
Upon  whose  bosom  gleams  on  high 

The  sun  with  golden  hue. 

Love  thee  ?    Do  I  love  the  world? 

No;  therefore,  dearest,  I  love  thee; 
As  Heaven  makes  this  fair  earth  dull, 

So  others  all  thou  mak'st  to  me. 

Then  ask  me  not  if  thou  art  dear, 
How  else  couldst  thou  e'er  be  ? 

All  things  of  earth,  the  good,  the  fair, 
Bid  me,  love,  think  of  thee. 

The  roseate  dawn,  the  noontide  gale, 
The  silver  lakes,  the  sparkling  stream, 

The  lofty  mount,  the  verdant  vale 
With  but  thy  beauties  ever  gleam. 


82  POEMS. 

Oh,  say,  must  I  count  all  as  vain? 

Tlios3  hopes  prove  fleeting  dreams  ? 
No,  thou  art  true  as  yonder  fane, 

The  court  where  life's  ray  beams. 


"ST.   PAUL'S." 

OCTOBER,  18 — . 

METHOUGHT  I  stood  within  that  ancient  fane, 

Where  in  my'infancy  I  had  learn'd  to  name 

The  name  of  God  :  where  a  sweet  babe  I  saw, 

Timing  his  steps,  with  his,  who  totter'd  on 

In  second  childishness,  companion  dearest 

Of  that  gray-haired  man,  once  sage-like 

In  his  intellect.     'Tw  is  beautiful,  to  see 

How  they  did  tend  each  other,  the  dying  oak 

Sheltering  the  delicate  flower,  which  with  fragrance  sweet 

In  turn  nursed  it      The  time-wearied  lion, 

Making  his  lair  couch  for  the  innocent  lamb. 

He  was  a  reverend,  just,  md  upright  man, 

And  when  "  Old  Age  "  did  bear  him  to  his  grave, 

"  Goodness  and  he  filled  up  one  monument." 

Those  days  were  numbered  by  the  spring  flowers'  bloom. 

Memory  still  wandering  back,  I  hear  the  voice 

Of  her,  who  in  her  spring  sank  into  lifeless  earth, 

A  flow'ret  nipped,  when  in  full  fragrance, 

By  thy  ruthless  blast,  consumption.     She  was  the  partner 

Of  a  good  man's  age,  the  jewel  of  his  soul,  the  sun 

That  kept  the  currents  warm  which  flowed 

Time-chilled  athrough  his  veins. 

Here  had  I  heard 

The  funeral  dirge,  swelling  with  solemn  cadence 
On  the  ear  ;  here  had  I  seen  dust  unto  dust 


POEMS.  83 

Returned,  and  wept  aloud  over  loved  parent's  bier ; 

What  wonder,  if  sad  thoughts  should  then  arise, 

Though  on  me  they  were  smiling  from  the  skies. 

Soon  like  the  brooklet  which  from  mount  doth  run, 

My  memory's  melancholy  strain  was  changed 

To  song  harmonious,  for  I  saw  the  sun 

Struggling  to  free  him  from  the  misty  bonds 

Which  the  chill  morn  had  round  him  hung, 

And  through  the  vaulted  dome  the  dawn's  soft  light 

Murkily  steal,  and  round  the  chancel  kneeling, 

Fair  woman  and  strong  man,  young  babes, 

And  infants  innocent,  one  nestled  close, 

Even  at  the  altar's  base,  and  smiling  in  its  mother's  face, 

Seemed  to  say  :  This  is  my  proper  resting-place. 

'Twas  a  sweet  thing  to  see,  how  fearless  'mid  the  crowd 

That  babe  could  be,  smiling  with  cherub's  glee. 

A  bride  and  bridegroom  at  the  altar  knelt, 

And  to  the  bishop's  solemn  utterance  gave 

Heartfelt  response  :  then  all  united  in  an  earnest  prayer 

That  they  might  fitly  wear  their  promises. 

They  both  were  young,  each  after  their  nature  beautiful ; 

The  rosy  morn,  ushering  in  young  day, 

A  gentle  dovelet,  taking  the  same  way. 


TO  MRS.   GEORGE  L.   SCHTJTLER. 

OCTOBER,  1841. 

POETS  have  sung  the  praises  of  sweet  streams, 
Their  lucid  waters  and  o'ershadowing  groves  ; 
Rich  flowery  banks  where  the  fond  lover  roves, 
When  on  their  bosoms  slumber  Luna's  beams, 


84  POEMS. 

Lisping  dear  names,  harmonious  with  their  song, 

Ceaseless,  yet  varying  with  fair  nature's  call ; 

Yet  none  have  given  to  the  ear  the  fall 

Of  waters,  singing  on  their  way,  the  throng 

Of  changeful  beauties,  the  rapt  sense  arrest ; 

The  heavenly  harmonies,  the  pure  mind  fills, 

When  with  your  touch,  you  sound  the  tinkling  rill- 

The  sweetest  music  ever  heard  confest, 

Slow  stealing  o'er  smooth  rocks,  lading  the  air 

With  soul-subduing  strains,  alas !  too  rare. 


TO 


So  young !  so  fair !  so  sweetly  sad ! 

Thy  way  of  lif  e  'twere  strange  to  tell. 
These  of  thy  days  should  be  most  glad, 

And  yet  this  sorrow  may  be  well. 
Teh1  me  thy  tale,  I  ween  of  love, 

Of  earliest  hopes  crushed  in  their  bloom, 
Of  shadows  cast  o'er  thy  bright  dreams, 

'Tis  thus,  fair  daughter,  to  the  tomb  ! 


TO  AN  EVEE  GAY  FEIENB. 

WHAT  sound  is  that  I  hear  on  high, 
Speeding  its  way  athrough  the  sky  ? 
'Tis  the  thunder's  bolt,  roaring  aloud, 
Bounding  on  in  the  fiery  cloud. 
Who  hath  made  that  bolt  so  strong, 
With  the  lightning  fierce  which  urges  it  on  ? 
He,  who  made  thee,  poor  mortal  man, 
He  hath  made  this,  and  a  louder  can. 


POEMS. 

Beware  in  what  course  you  hurry  on, 
Soon  will  your  earthly  days  be  gone  ; 
He  who  hath  made  the  thunder  loud, 
He  also  made  the  lowering  cloud  ; 
He,  who  hath  made  the  form  of  life, 
Stirreth  up  the  elements'  strife  ; 
He  who  hath  made  all  nature  fair, 
He  alone  need  not  death — beware. 


TO  E.   S.   N. 

LADY,  let  not  fancy  roam, 

In  those  dark  and  gloomy  lands, 

"Where  like  vapors  from  the  tomb, 

Sorrow  round  thee  wieathes  her  bands. 

Once  thy  brow  was  cloudless,  lady, 
And  thy  smile  was  sweet  and  gay, 

Brightly  beamed  thy  eye  like  fairies, 
Joyous  as  a  spring-time's  day. 

Cheer,  sweet  mourner,  let  not  grief, 

Like  the  canker  in  the  bud, 
Make  thy  spring  of  life  so  brief, 

Drown  thy  young  heart  in  its  flood. 


FAIR  WOMAN'S  SMILES. 

How  blest  is  he  for  whom  the  sigh 
Of  gentle  woman  oft  is  breathed  ; 

Around  whose  image  every  thought 
Forever  is  most;  fondly  wreathed. 


86  POEMS. 

For  whom  affection's  tear  doth  How, 
Or  brightest  smile  doth  sweetly  beam, 

And  in  the  hoar  of  joy  or  woe 
To  her  the  spirit  of  her  dream. 

And  yet  how  sad  it  is  that  she 
So  fondly  prizes,  oft's  deceived, 

That  from  the  hand  should  bid  it  flee, 
The  blow  most  wounds  is  oft  received. 


TO  A  BROOK. 

WHY  should  I  not  be  as  the  graceful  deer, 
Heedless  of  time,  exempt  from  every  care  ? 
Light  as  the  air,  which  bears  aloft  the  cloud, 
Pure  as  the  stream,  of  its  reflection  proud  ; 
My  song  as  free  as  is  the  morning  airs, 
Singing  'mid  tree-tops,  where  the  bird  but  dares 
To  soar  ?     As  clear,  as  steady,  and  as  bright, 
My  way  through  life  as  gorgeous  stars  of  night, 
Chasing  away,  with  beaming  smiles,  the  gloom 
Which  haunts  each  child  of  sin  unto  the  tomb. 
Untrammell'd  as  the  winds,  my  way  shall  be 
Not  man  dependent.     Such  are  never  free. 
No,  let  me  live  in  nature  like  to  thee, 
Thou  pearly  element — no  fear  to  flee. 


THE  MINSTREL. 

1842. 

A  LADY  fair  from  her  lattice  light, 

Gazed  on  the  silver  sea 
Where  the  moonbeams  played  when  earth  was  dight 

In  its  midnight  panoply. 


POEMS.  87 

"Wliilo  thus  she  stood,  the  sound  was  heard, 

Of  a  minstrel  sweetly  playing 
His  harp  seem'd  striving  to  clothe  in  words 

"What  her  spirit  to  heaven  was  saying. 


To  sadness  soon  he  changed  his  strain, 
One  sigh  by  her  was  given, 

He  never  touched  that  chord  again, 
Their  spirits  met  in  heaven. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  VOLUME 

(Poems   of   Rogers,  Campbell,    Montgomery,   Lamb,  and   Kirk 
White)  presented  to  a  friend. 

FLOWERS  sweet  and  fair  will  early  fade  and  fall; 
Fondest  pleasures  on  the  light  heart  pall; 
From  these  pure  pages  then  to  thee  shall  spring 
Enduring  comforts.     Each  doth  in  turn  bring 
Chaplets  meet  for  the  gallant  warrior's  brow. 
Each  teaches  whence  ne'er-fading  glories  flow. 
Of  "  Memory,"  one  the  fond  remembrance  tells; 
On  sweets  of  "  Hope,"  the  other  sweetly  dwells. 
In  heaven-born  anthems  "  He  of  Zion  "  sings. 
And  to  the  scene,  Lamb  fairest  flow'rets  brings; 
While  thus  the  glittering  galaxy  doth  close, 
With  verse,  we  feel  from  gentlest  nature  flows. 
Here  ever  may  the  craving  spirit  find 
The  purest  truths  have  flow'd  from  mortal  mind. 


88  POEMS. 

ON  WEIR'S  PAINTING,  WEST  POINT, 
IN  CHAPEL,  1840. 

HAPPY  is  he  whose  faultless  hand  can  trace 

The  graceful  form,  the  much-endeared  face; 

Thrice  happy  he,  and  oh,  how  honored  too, 

Whose  works  so  nobly  teach  as  thine  here  do, 

The  soldier's  road  to  proudest  glory  lies 

In  warring  ever  to  his  Maker's  praise; 

That  bloodless  may  religion's  fight  be  fought, 

Though  fierce  the  strife,  they'll  win  the  prize  that's  sought 

"War's  "  banner,  furled,  lies  beneath  his  feet; 

No  clang  of  arms,  no  peal  the  ear  doth  greet, 

But  hopeful,  smiling  "  peace,"  with  laurel  wreath, 

Points  to  the  realm  whose  warriors  know  not  death; 

Much  to  thy  honor,  Weir,  this  gift  redounds  : 

Rich  in  itself,  richer  for  truths  here  found. 


ON   THE   PAINTING   IN   CHANCEL   OF   WEST 

POINT    CHAPEL. 

BY  WEIR,  1840. 

YE  youthful  sons  of  war,  whose  steadfast  gaze 

Is  fixed  on  glory's  star — here  learn  the  way 

To  highest  honors  ye  can  ever  wear; 

Fadeless  as  eternity,  ye  will  rear 

Proud  monuments,  if  so  ye  shall  but  live 

True  warriors.     Your  highest  ambition  give, 

Not  to  the  conflict  on  the  battle-field. 

"  Peace  "  calls  on  ye  a  bloodless  sword  to  wield 

In  her  high  cause;  a  host  Religion  leads; 

Join  ye  her  ranks — true  glory's  in  her  deeds; 


POEMS.  89 


Promotion's  sure  beneath  her  banner, 
Preferment  to  the  highest  posts  of  honor, 
Where  peace  and  love,  contentment  e'er  shall  be, 
Are  her  rewards.    This  Weir  is  taught  by  thee. 


TO    ELIZABETH. 
1841. 

OH,  tell  me,  must  this  hour  of  joy 
Be  linked  with  hours  of  gloom; 

One  gold,  the  rest  all  steelen  rings; 
The  chain  shall  be  my  doom  ? 

From  on  thy  breast  a  jewel  rare 
Gleams  on  my  wondering  sight; 

Oh,  might  I  wear  that  jewel  rich, 
Life's  links  would  all  be  bright. 

Oh,  shine  thou  like  that  diamond  pure, 
Hanging  on  my  life's  chain, 

And  thou  wilt  gild  its  steelen  links, 
And  I  not  love  in  vain. 


TO  ELIZABETH. 

OH,  what's  the  art  you  use  to  make 
The  hours  so  swiftly  fly, 

And  as  they  pass  their  hue  to  take 
From  yonder  happy  sky  ? 


90 


POEMS. 

Oh,  whence  the  smile  that  lights  thy  face; 

Those  brightly  beaming  eyes, 
Whose  glances  every  care  efface, 

And  bid  "  away  "  to  sighs  ? 

Is  it  that  time  and  thou  art  one, 
Knowing  nor  change  nor  age, 

How  swrift  soe'er  ye  onward  run, 
Owning  but  one  bright  stage  ? 

As  "  he,"  you  know  doth  never  change, 

So  finds  he  fair  in  thee, 
A  gleeful  spirit  lights  the  range 

He  takes  o'er  land  and  sea. 

Oh,  if  with  him  I  long  should  sail, 

Over  life's  varied  sea, 
I  never  would  its  storms  bewail, 

Heard  I  your  joyous  glee. 


TO  COUSIN  ELIZA  SCHUYLER. 

You  should  love  flowers,  for  flowers  love  you, 
They  bloom  in  thy  hand  as  fair  as  they  grew. 
Thy  lily-white  hand,  so  like  gem  of  the  vale, 
It  wooeth  my  heart  to  tell  its  love-tale. 

The  myrtle  that  blooms  with  perfume  so  sweet, 
Wherever  thou  movest  my  rapt  senses  greet, 


POEMS.  91 

The  orange-bud  too,  so  sweet  and  so  fair, 
Recalls  unto  me  thy  virtues  most  rare. 

The  rose  from  thy  cheek  has  borrowed  its  hue, 
Its  fragrance,  the  breath  it  has  stolen  from  you. 
Oh,  say,  may  I  hope  they  shine  thus  for  me; 
Or  would  I  be  a  blight  to  the  sweets'  bloom  for  thee  ? 


TO  ELIZABETH. 

SIN'S  clouds  were  lowering  all  around, 

No  peace,  no  comfort  e'er  was  found, 

Until,  sweet  dove,  thou  earnest  to  me, 

And  taught  me  my  neglects  to  see. 

Oh,  hover  ever  round  me  now; 

Lead  to  the  streams  whence  life  doth  flow; 

Grant  that,  there  laving  I  may  glow 

With  light  serene  and  others  show 

The  gorgeous  way  which  leads  to  life, 

The  way  with  peace  forever  rife; 

Oh,  finish  this  good  work  so  well  begun, 

And  leave  me  not,  back  to  sin's  way  to  run, 

Then  shall  our  spirits  meet  in  regions  blest, 

By  my  prov'd  worth,  my  debt  to  thee  confest 


TO  ELIZABETH. 

BRIGHT  star  of  my  soul,  to  thee  I  sing, 
Trophies,  rare  trophies,  my  queen,  I  bring; 
Honors  and  glory  and  love  are  thine, 
Oh  !  on  my  wondering  spirit  shine. 


92  POEMS. 

Sorrow  and  sin,  henceforth  shall  flee. 
No  more  my  heart  shall  weary  be, 
With  song  and  with  mirth  I'll  fill  the  air, 
If  thou  my  home  wilt  but  deign  to  cheer. 

Purity  veils  from  all  gaze  profane 

The  "  Spirit  of  Truth  "  which  peerless  reigns; 

Flowers  I'll  bring  to  deck  the  brow 

A  chaplet  of  glory  enriches  now. 

Grace  in  thy  form,  life  in  thy  laugh, 

Oh,  let  me  ever  this  goblet  quaff; 

Earth  with  its  beauties  made  heaven  by  thee, 

Before  thy  rare  smiles  all  shadows  shall  flee. 


TO  E. 

IF  I,  at  distance,  must  gaze  on  the  star, 
Gleams  as  of  old,  to  Chaldean  afar, 
Silent  in  worship,  on  low-bended  knee, 
Soothed  in  thy  service  my  spirit  will  be. 

Then  on  my  worship  pray  do  not  frown, 

If  other  shall  wear  the  proud  victor's  crown; 

I  will  fealty  swear  to  him  in  thy  train, 

May  thee  I  but  serve,  glad  e'en  in  my  chains. 

Glory  and  honor  and  praises  I've  known, 
Trophies  for  good  done,  proudly  have  worn; 
Dangers  have  dared  by  fell  and  by  field, 
Yet  never  quailed,  but  now  humbly  yield. 


POEMS.  93 

The  glance  which  has  conquered, 
Leading  on  battle's  hosts,  has  lowered 
'Neath  thine,  while  my  face  paled  and  blushed, 
In  fear  lest  by  thee  my  heart's  prayer  should  be 
hushed. 

For  daring  to  worship,  thou  star  of  my  soul, 
Sweet  saint,  then  in  charity,  since  all  control 
To  him  thou  hast  conquered  o'er  his  spirit  is  lost; 
Forgive  if  he  yields  to  thy  charms  countless  hosts 


CHKISTMAS. 

1841. 

REJOICE,  the  day  hath  come, 

To  man,  a  Saviour's  given, 
Let  your  glad  voices  anthems  raise; 

Be  joy  in  earth  as  heaven. 

Now  want  doth  lose  its  sting, 

Care's  wrinkled  brow  is  smoothed, 

The  poor,  the  rich,  the  grave,  the  gay, 
Are  all  alike  beloved. 

All  are  the  heirs  of  life, 

Let  all  then  sing  His  praise; 
The  sweetest  comes  from  hearts  are  true, 

And  steadfast  in  His  ways. 

Sorrows  shall  vanish  at  the  thought 

That  joy  eternal's  given; 
The  universe  one  choir  shall  praise 

The  Lord  of  earth  and  heaven. 


94  POEMS 


LOVE. 

LOVE  is  a  tyrant,  whose  despotic  sway 

None  e'er  may  share; 
Eeason  to  fancy  must  its  rule  resign, 

Many  its  care. 

Imagination  is  its  direst  foe, 

Yet  firmest  friend; 
From  it  the  greatest  beauties  ever  flow, 

Like  breath  to  end. 

Jealous  by  nature,  ever  on  the  watch, 

With  childish  freaks; 
Itself  in  eager  haste,  it  oft  doth  catch, 

Till  reason  speaks. 

Then  creaks  the  bark  of  glowing  fancy, 

The  dream  is  o'er; 
Beason  once  more  hath  seized  the  nervous  helm, 

Love's  bark's  ashore. 


SONNET. 

WHEN  we  look  back  and  think  of  all  the  days 
That  we  have  passed  in  vain  and  useless  ways, 
We  ask  ourselves  if  we  have  pleased  God, 
If  we  have  obey'd  His  ever  righteous  word. 
Conscience  doth  loudly  tell  us  we  have  erred, 
That  we  from  the  true  path  of  life  have  swerved, 
That  we,  most  guilty  creatures,  live  to  roam 
Through  the  wide  world,  without  or  friend  or  home. 


POEMS.  95 

For  though  'gainst  storms  our  roofs  may  shelter  be, 

Yet  are  they  ill-secured,  when  we  of  Thee 

So  little  think,  and  much  less,  Lord,  obey, 

When  we  in  darkness  live,  altho'  the  ray 

Of  Life  eternal  shines  upon  the  way, 

That  we  should  walk,  as  bright  as  sun-lit  day. 


TO  MY  ELDEST  SON. 

SEPTEMBER  9,  1847. 

WELCOME  to  earth,  sweet  infant,  may  thy  way 
Be  so  far  golden  that  thou  may'st  not  stray 
From  the  straight  road  leads  to  eternal  life. 
May  every  day,  aye,  every  hour  be  most  rife 
In  fadeless  joys,  such  as  to  thee  shall  last, 
When  the  short  summer  of  thy  life  is  past, 
And  cheer  thy  age's  winter  with  bright  flame 
Of  generous  deeds,  fond  friends  delight  to  name; 
So  that  when  time  and  tide  shall  be  no  more, 
Thou'lt  rest  secure  upon  that  peaceful  shore, 
Fertile  in  richest  harvests  to  all  those 
Whose  bosoms  with  celestial  spirit  glow, 
Chosen  attendants  on  His  high  commands, 
Who  calls  to  honors  in  His  happy  lands. 


ANTIETAM. 

JULY,  1862. 
HARK  to  the  clarion's  blast ! 

Hark  to  the  fife  and  drum ! 
Hark  to  the  cannon's  boom ! 

As  fierce  and  fast  they  come  ! 


96  POEMS. 

Lie  low,  till  the  roar  is  o'er, 

Ere  smoke  is  curled  away; 
Fill  the  field  with  a  sea  of  gore, 

Check  the  foe  with  death's  array. 

Level  your  muskets  in  serried  row, 
A  solid,  fearless  front  now  form; 

Rider  and  horse  'neath  your  fierce  fire's  glow 
Shall  quickly  meet  the  traitor's  doom. 

Hark,  cannons  roar,  shells  fierce  shriek ! 

Our  bullets  sharp,  shrill  whistle, 
Their  dying  groans,  our  death-work  speak 

While  Porter's  rifles  glisten. 

Mansfield  has  fallen — Hooker  too, 
But  he  shall  lead  in  martial  array, 

In  many  a  fight,  with  victor's  blow. 
McClellan  has  saved  this  bloodiest  day. 

Wherefore  is  this  ?    We  brothers  all — 
Fighting  for  what  ?    A  phantom  dream, 

A  fancied  wrong  ?    Is  this  honor's  call  ? 
No,  no,  'tis  life  to  the  slave  now  gleams. 

Freedom  for  all,  no  matter  their  hue, 
Our  God  in  Heaven  has  willed  to  all. 

Sons  of  the  South,  yield  to  the  Blue, 
Which  never  before  the  gray  shall  fall. 

Cheer  for  the  Stars,  cheer  for  the  Stripes, 
Cheer  for  the  gallant  boys  in  Blue, 

Antietam's  blow  slavery  dooms. 

God  stands  firm,  by  the  -just,  the  true. 


POEMS.  97 

CHANCELLORSVILLE, 
MAY,  1863. 

SILENT  and  sullen  the  scene, 

Silent  and  sullen  the  air; 
Sudden  we  start  from  our  dream, 

Awakened  by  enemy's  cheer. 

Unheeded,  the  warning  was  sent 

To  him  who  commanded  the  corps, 
Wrapt  in  his  confidence,  rent 

Was  his  fame,  the  foe  at  his  door. 

Our  picket-guard  hurried  the  word 
That  Jackson  was  massing  in  wood: 

Would  strike  ere  our  lines  could  be  formed, 
Not  heeding,  unmoved,  Howard  stood. 

Loud  was  the  shout,  fierce  was  the  charge 
On  our  men  by  their  camp-fire  sitting, 

Our  evening  rations  yet  warm, 

Not  warned  of  the  enemy's  greeting. 

"Kally,  boys — rally,  boys;  form 

A  hollow-square,"  our  hope — 
Jackson's  horse,  in  fierce  charge  come, 
And  they  make  a  fearful  swoop. 

Again,  again  did  we  rally, 

Fierce  as  ocean  the  sea-shore  laves, 
His  cavalry  from  the  woods  sally, 

And  our  boys  are  swept  to  their  graves. 

Those  gallant  sons  of  the  North 
Who,  following  our  "  fighting  Joe," 


98  POEMS. 

Drove  from  Antietam  the  South 
All  gilded  with  victory's  glow. 

The  wearied  and  worn,  all  through  the  night 
Our  wounded  we  succor — our  dead  we  Imry, 

Jackson  has  fallen,  after  winning  the  fight, 
Slain  by  his  own  in  the  turmoil's  flurry. 

The  Sabbath's  dawn  has  broken, 

The  battle  is  fiercely  raging, 
Hooker  has  been  wounded,  fallen, 

Sickles  the  foe  engaging, 

Calls  for  succor  in  vain, 

None  then  to  take  command 
And  secure  our  Sickles'  gain, 

Line  after  line  disbands. 

Kilpatrick  is  doing  his  work, 

And  Pleasanton  charging  on; 
But  Stoneman  and  Averill  lack, 

And  our  claimed  victory's  gone. 

Fast  falls  the  rain,  as  fast  the  foes 
Each  claiming  the  field  as  theirs, 

Till  wearied  and  worn,  each  one  goes 
To  their  lines  'mid  groans,  'mid  cheers. 

The  dead  and  the  dying,  there  lie  close, 

Fire  in  the  forest  raging — 
Better  that  all  had  their  lives  then  lost, 

Than  wounded,  die  in  the  blazing. 

Neither  a  victor,  both  fall  back 
To  meet  soon  in  battle  array, 


POEMS. 


Jackson  no  more,  we  now  on  the  rack, 
Shall  glory  in  Gettysburg  day. 


GETTYSBURG. 

THE  Northern  heart  was  heavy, 
Yet  farm  in  its  trust  that  God, 

In  His  good  time,  after  chastening, 
Would  keep  His  promised  word. 

The  glorious  Fourth  at  hand, 

Day  by  all  nations  hailed; 
Whose  hordes  fly  to  our  land, 

As  before  their  tyrants  they  quailed. 

After  Chancellorsville's  losses, 
Our  ranks  are  filled  once  more, 

Lee  with  his  host  is  hastening  North, 
To  flood  loyal  fields  with  gore. 

July's  glorious  golden  days 

Are  gilding  the  fields  with  grain, 

Orchards  with  fruits  are  laden, 
All  growing,  alas  in  vain; 

For  Freedom's  calls  are  heard 

By  every  loyal  son, 
And  North  and  West  are  hurrying  on, 

For  Freedom  must  be  won. 

The  first  day  Eeynolds  drove 

Back  the  outnumbering  foe, 
On  the  second  morn  the  fight  raged  fierce, 

The  scene  was  all  aglow. 


100  POEMS. 

The  loyal  North  victorious, 

Driven  the  foe  from  the  field, 
Again  and  again  repulsed, 

For  Ewell  would  not  yield. 

Our  Sickles,  armed  with  faith, 

Charges  this  lion's  den, 
Sweeps  through,  with  vengeful  wrath, 

Falls  'mid  the  myriads  slain. 

From  dawn  of  the  third  our  Slocum 

Fearless  stood — a  wall  of  fire. 
While  Jackson's  old  corps,  their  masses  hurled 

In  fierce  and  quenchless  ire. 

Our  foe  retired  at  noon, 

But  ere  two  hours  were  spent, 
Longstreet,  sublime  in  solid  mass, 

Against  us  his  corps  sent 

Till  even  raged  the  deadly  strife, 
The  foe  from  the  field  were  driven. 

Victory  crowned  the  Union  cause 
Under  the  hand  of  Heaven. 

Oh,  glorious  Fourth !  hailed  be  this  day 
While  Gettysburg  fight  lights  our  land, 

Vicksburg's  host,  so  long  stood  at  bay, 
Falls  beneath  Grant's  heavy  hand. 


POEMS.  101 

TO  E . 

NOVEMBER  15,  1842. 

JOY,  joy  be  unto  thee,  my  lovely  bride, 

My  life's  best  gift,  a  rosy  dawn  salutes  thee, 

Earth,  ocean,  sky,  glisten  in  glad  delight — 
Henceforth  life's  ills  before  thy  smile  shall  flee. 

When  thus  I  call  thee  mine,  all  thine  grow  dear, 

Thy  mother  is  a  mother,  too,  to  me  ; 
Thy  sisters  fair  a  circlet  round  us  form, 

Unto  my  bosom  closer  binding  thee. 

There  shalt  thou  find  whatever  may  betide 
A  resting-place  secure  as  dovelets'  nest, 

'Mid  fiercest  storms  rock'd  in  the  old  oak's  arms, 
An  infant  slumbering  on  a  monarch's  breast. 

Thanks  from  a  heart  o'erflowing  rise  to  Him 
Who  gives  thee  me — a  holy  trust — dear  love, 

Oh !  may  I  e'er  be  found  true  to  this  trust. 
As  worthy  it,  so  worthy  thee  I'll  prove. 


A  LEGEND    OF  THE  EHINE. 

WHOSE  home  is  yonder  castle 

With  its  turrets  high  and  proud? 

There  dwell  no  sons  of  battle, 
But  the  warriors  of  the  cloud. 

'Tis  a  castle  high  and  strong 
Of  a  race  famed  in  story, 

Whose  glory  lasted  long, 
But  whose  end  was  sad  and  gory. 


102  POEMS. 

Erd  was  a  stern  old  chieftain, 
Long  known  far  and  near  ; 

His  call  none  ever  heard  in  vain, 
Its  sound  to  all  was  fear. 

He  had  an  only  daughter, 
Ethelda,  fair  and  proud  ; 

To  foe  he  gave  no  quarter, 
No  ear  she  to  the  crowd. 

Who  woo'd  her  night  and  morning, 
Who  woo'd  her  many  a  year  ; 

She  bade  them  go — all  scorning 
Who  fear'd  "Cleft  Kock"  to  dare. 

At  last  there  came  a  chieftain 
From  a  far  distant  land  ; 

He  brav'd  the  rock — its  terrors  vain- 
Ethelda  gave  her  hand. 

High  in  the  air  he  rais'd  it, 

With  fire  flashed  his  eye — 
**  For  whom  is  murderess  meet 
Her  race  shall  surely  die." 

Unto  that  chief  she  knelt, 
Ethelda  proud  and  vain  ; 

Rather  than  lose  this  lord  she  felt 
She'd  stoop  to  life  of  shame. 

Her  father  soon  lay  dead  ; 

Her  acts  had  slaughtered  him. 
She  laid  in  earth — that  head 

To  man  had  a  terror  been. 


POEMS.  103 

Ethelda  liv'd  alone, 

Save  when  Carodin  came  ; 
A  lurid  light  e'er  shone 

Around  that  house  of  shame. 

Till  as  her  spirit  pass'd  away 

Far  brighter  burnt  that  flame  ; 
Then  all  was  quenched  at  close  of  day, 

Tho'  not  quench'd  that  maiden  name. 


TO  E.  S.  N. 

DEAR  Bessie,  we  have  known  each  other 
Scarce  more  than  half  a  season, 

Yet  in  it  I  have  lived  an  age, 
Oh,  tell  me,  what's  the  reason  ? 

The  days  have  flown  on  eagle's  wings 

As  blithe  as  linnet's  song, 
And  yet  so  full  of  joy  was  each 

It  seemed  a  season  long. 

The  moon  when  passing  o'er  us,  love, 

Alike  gilds  every  scene  ; 
So  'neath  thy  smiles  shines  every  hour, 

And  life's  but  one  sweet  dream. 

Oh,  may  we  never  live  to  find 

A  shadow  cross  this  view  ; 
How  loud  soe'er  Life's  storms  may  rage, 

That  moon  I'll  see  in  you. 


104  POEMS. 


TO  A  CLOUD. 

BEAUTIFUL  cloud,  whither  away — 
Stay  with  me,  I  pray  thee,  stay  ; 
Thy  fleecy  train  of  snowy  white, 
With  its  dazzling  stars  adorn  the  night, 
Like  thee  our  joys,  in  a  gorgeous  train, 
Deck  the  dark  robes  of  grief  and  pain. 


TO  E.  S.  H. 

FAIREST  and  best  of  the  daughters  of  earth, 
Whose  smile  has  for  me  than  Peri  more  worth  ; 
Thou  who  dost  shine  as  the  bright  stars  of  heaven, 
Gild  thou  my  days  till  a  golden  even. 


TO 


THOUGH  fairy  is  thy  form,  ladie, 
Adorned  by  every  grace, 

Tis  not  for  this  that  I  love  thee, 
The  fairest  of  thy  race. 

'Tis  true  thy  lip  is  sweet,  ladie, 

Thy  smiling  rosy  lip 
As  sweet  as  floweret  where  the  bee 

In  summer-time  doth  sip. 

Tis  not  thy  blooming  cheek,  ladie, 
Whose  hue  outvies  the  flower, 

Which  now  I  feel  inspires  me 
In  verse  to  own  thy  power. 


POEMS.  105 

Nor  golden  curls,  waving,  ladie, 

O'er  orbs  now  dazzling  bright, 
As  moonlight  clouds  o'er  stars,  ladie, 

When  peering  forth  at  night. 

'Tis  not  thy  silver  voice,  ladie, 

Like  waters  o'er  rocks  stealing, 
Gives  to  my  flinty  heart,  ladie, 

This  true  and  changeless  feeling. 

But  'tis  thy  wit  and  worth,  ladie, 

Flowerets  of  gentle  birth. 
Which  blooming  round  the  heart,  ladie, 

Now  win  it  back  to  earth. 


SONNET. 

OH,  Father,  grant  me,  e'er  my  days  are  past, 

That  I  may  learn  the  ways  of  truth,  of  life, 
Not  using  years,  as  I  have  used  my  last, 

But  that  they  may  with  most  just  deeds  be  rife  ; 
If  I  have  erred,  my  heart,  I  hope,  was  right. 

None  have  I  willingly  abused — no  trust 
Confided,  have  I  wronged — with  all  my  might 

Hereafter  will  I  labor,  Lord,  for  Thee,  but  grant 
Earth  offers  not  to  me  too  strong  allurements. 

Whatever  is,  is  best,  that  let  me  learn, 
That  here  all  things  are  vain — preferments 

Follow  fast  and  sure,  those  who  ne'er  turn 
From  virtue  ;  for  useless  fame 

All  else  forget,  never  Thy  holy  name. 


106  POEMS. 


TO  EMMA. 

AUBUKN  tresses !  sparkling  eye ! 
Laughing  lips,  with  their  coral  dye  ; 
Snowy  bosom  and  faultless  form, 
Sylph-like  step,  as  she  floats  along. 

"  Who  is  this  ?  "  did  the  Beauty  cry, 

Glancing  in  mirror,  passing  it  by. 
"  Oh,  foolish  girl,  beware  the  thought ; 

What  ?    Has  he  lisped  ?    Is  thy  heart  caught  ?  " 

Her  wooer  came — she  sang  her  song — 
Did  that  voice  to  siren  belong  ? 
Perfume  of  heaven  filled  the  air — 
Seraph  notes — so  rich,  so  rare  ! 

Gladsome  and  gleesome.    Oh,  that  smile ! 
'Twould  a  saint  from  his  beads  beguile. 
Yes — he's  vanquished,  that  golden  hair, 
That  laughing  voice: !  that  face  so  fair ! 

The  sceptre  of  genius  is  crested  there, 
Her  brow  of  beauty  truth's  impress  bears, 
Yet  pales  before  the  rare  wit  that  flows 
In  her  sparkling  words,  where  wisdom  glows. 

Was  it,  then,  strange  she  woke  from  the  lair 
That  lion  heart,  which  all  danger  dares  ? 
One  has  come,  whom  he  trembles  before — 
Cupid  has  conquered,  opened  the  door. 

The  troop  of  beavities  he  marshalled  in  dreams, 
Have  flooded  his  soul,  when  he  strongest  seems  ; 


POEMS.  107 

He  has  met  liis  fate — wilt  thou  hear  his  prayer  ? 
Is  thy  heart  whole  ?     Sweet  maiden,  ne'er  fear. 

No  snowflake  falls  from  our  dear  Father's  sky, 
But  its  pillow  is  spread,  where  'twill  safely  lie  ; 
The  hand  that  mars  the  pure  work  of  God 
Will  never  escape  His  avenging  rod. 


ZENOBIA. 

SHE  stands  alone  in  queenly  pride, 

Her  bearing  high  as  ever ; 
Fate,  thou  couldst  raise  her  rock-bound  throne, 

But  her  proud  spirit,  never. 

Around  the  fierce  exulting  crowd, 

Revelling  in  her  great  fall, 
Demand  her  life — a  woman's  life — 

Hers,  who  had  lost  her  all. 

Her  all — not  so,  in  her  proud  heart 

That  spirit  burn'd  as  pure, 
As  when  she  sat  Palmyra's  queen, 

Far  from  the  Roman's  shore. 

She  was  the  consort  of  a  king, 

Partner  of  the  Roman's  throne, 
Despising  servitude — he  slain, 

She  reigned,  proud  queen,  alone. 

Rome's  Emperor  *  in  mercy  bids 
His  arm'd  attendants  cease  ; 


'  Emperor  Aurelian  married  Zenobia's  daughter. 


108  POEMS. 

Pardons  her  errors  and  her  guilt, 
Points  out  the  paths  of  peace. 

On  Tiber's  shore,  her  stately  step 
And  queenly  voice  is  heard  : 

A  mimic  court  attends  her  will, 
Obeys  each  wish,  each  word. 

Oh,  was  it  mercy  thus  to  spare 
To  mockery's  cruel  gibes, 

A  heart  which  God  had  made  to  rule 
A  thousand  savage  tribes  ? 

Aye,  more  than  mercy ;  for  in  Rome 
That  heart  was  tamed,  was  calm  : 

She  closed  her  days  in  virtuous  deeds, 
Robed  in  religion's  charms. 


TO  E. 

WHEN  he  who  adores  thee 
Shall  roam  far  away, 

Will  he  be  to  thee,  Lissy, 
As  dear  as  to-day  ? 

May  the  smile  of  another 
In  the  hour  of  mirth, 

Not  banish  the  lover 

Like  shadow  from  earth  ? 

Or  will  thy  heart  beat, 
Thy  rosy  cheek  burn, 

Thy  lips  fail  to  meet, 
As  you  wait  his  return  ? 


POEMS.  109 


Or  open  the  seal 

Where  his  love  story's  writ, 
"  Thine  thro'  woe  or  weal, 
Whate'er  life  has  in  it  ?  " 

Aye — we'll  quaff  of  its  cup 
While  its  waters  shall  last ; 

And  when  they're  drank  up, 
We'll  sigh  that  they're  past. 

For  whate'er  they  may  be, 
Or  of  pleasure  or  pain2 

If  they're  shared  but  with  thee, 
To  me,  'tis  the  same. 


THE  TEOTJBLED  SPIEIT'S  SONG. 

MY  home,  it  is  by  the  churchyard  side, 
The  sharp  ring  of  the  spade  I  hear 

As  it  sounds  o'er  all  from  babe  to  bride, 

When  they're  borne  from  the  mournful  bier. 

Oft  on  my  ear,  at  the  midnight  hour, 

The  whisperings  of  spirits  steal, 
Or  like  the  balmy  breath  of  flowers, 

Or  the  culprits  at  the  wheel. 

First  come  the  young  babes,  their  lispings  weak, 
Then  deep  sound  the  mournful  mothers, 

Then  on  the  ear  strike  the  young  bride's  shrieks 
As  she  weeps  the  death  of  lover. 

And  then,  anon,  there  comes  a  low  sound, 
Like  the  heaving  of  the  billows, 


110  POEMS. 

As  tho'  many  the  heads  beneath  that  ground, 
Laid  not  on  easy  pillows. 

As  tho'  spirits  dread  did  haunt  the  tomb 
Of  some  who  there  they  have  laid, 

I  strive  to  rest,  I  see  but  that  gloom, 
Hear  naught  but  that  ringing  spade. 

And  then  I  think  how  blest  are  the  young, 
Who  have  sank  to  peaceful  slumbers  ; 

For  whate'er  our  lot,  our  hearts  are  wrung, 
If  many  a  year  we  number. 


TO  ELIZABETH. 

STAB  of  this  darksome  hour, 
Light  of  life's  gloomy  day, 

I  own  thy  mighty  power, 
Bow  to  that  light's  glad  ray. 

Speak  not  of  sorrow's  reign, 
Smile  tho'  its  shafts  are  sent. 

I  truly  know  the  pain, 

Sweet  maid,  thy  heart  hath  rent. 

Oh,  ye !  who  kneel  to  "  love," 
Beware  its  galling  chain, 

Tho'  it  your  souls  may  move, 
'Tis  but  a  golden  pain. 


POEMS.  Ill 

ON  LAUEENS  HAMILTON. 

JULY,  1858. 

WEEP  not — he  needs  no  tears — 

They  are  for  those  of  earth  ; 
But  sympathize  with  him 

Who  mourns  a  brother's  worth. 

His  was  a  spirit  bright- 

Wander'd  from  yon  high  sphere 
To  this  vast  world  of  night, 

Where  none  his  joys  might  share. 


ON  MY  BROTHER  LAURENS, 

Who  lost  his  life  at  Richmond,  Va.,  July,  1858,  when  a  member  of 
the  Seventh  Regiment,  escorting  President  Monroe's  remains 
to  their  last  home. 

WEEP  not  for  Laurens !  he  is  dead — 

Dead  to  the  world  and  all  its  bitter  cares, 

Where  he  by  Heaven's  loving  hand  was  led, 
Though  weighty  trials  did  assail  him  here. 

He  lived  above  them,  ever  in  their  midst, 
As  sea-bird,  soaring  o'er  the  racing  waves 

In  wildest  storm,  his  wing  unwet,  most  blest, 
For  in  God's  care  he  found  the  love  He  gave  ; 

Teaching  that  griefs  were  but  as  vestal  flames, 
Chastened  the  spirit,  making  more  meet 

When  he  was  called  to  serve  in  Heaven's  high  fane, 
To  wear  the  glory,  there  God's  own  shall  greet. 


112  POEMS. 

He  was  so  loving — gentle,  firm,  yet  kind — 

All  hearts  unconsciously  lie  ruled  ; 
Now  he  is  gone — in  this  our  loss  we  find 

How  blest  were  we  by  his  pure  teachings  schooled. 

Then  render  adoration  unto  Him, 

Whose  love  a  season  short  our  darling  lent 

To  teach  how  golden  are  the  griefs  earth  dims 
To  those  receive  them  in  our  Lord's  intent. 


TO-NIGHT. 

OH,  lovely  night,  shinest  thou  for  me  alone, 
Or  to  some  kindred  spirit  art  thou  known? 
Some  spirit  bright,  a  beacon  from  afar, 
As  to  the  wave-tossed  seaman,  Polar  star. 

So  fix  thy  image  on  my  wav'ring  mind, 
That  I  in  future  festive  hours  may  find 
All  thy  rich  beauties — rich  as  now  they  gleam, 
That  they  may  not  be  fleeting  as  a  dream. 

High  o'er  my  head,  sweet  Luna  brightly  glows, 
Serenely  walking  thro'  yon  realm  which  shows, 
Like  azure  train,  on  queenly  shoulders  borne, 
"With  golden  stars  bespangled,  tho'  they're  shorn, 

Of  half  their  lustre,  as  by  thee,  my  Star, 
All  other  beauties  of  this  wide  world  are — 
So,  fond  one,  live,  that  here  thy  course  fulfill'd, 
There  you  may  shine,  as  at  thy  birth  was  will'd. 


POEMS.  113 


TO  E. 

You  say,  clear  love,  your  nature's  cold, 
When  carelessly  you  greet  me, 

Oh,  rather  would  I  you  should  scold, 
Than  that  you  thus  should  meet  me. 

Beware,  beware,  take  early  heed, 

For  we  but  own  this  minute  ; 
Life,  you  know,  has  a  headlong  speed, 

So  drink  the  joy  that's  in  it. 

Flowers  which  bloom  when  summer  smiles, 
'Neath  winter's  breath  will  fall, 

So  while  my  heart  thy  wit  beguiles, 
Beneath  thy  frown  it  may  pall. 

Oh,  wear  no  more  that  careless  look  ; 

Give  me  no  icy  hand  ; 
Thy  frown,  dear  love,  I  cannot  brook, 

Thy  smile's  a  fairy's  wand. 

Awakes  to  light,  to  love,  to  joy — 

A  heaven  makes  of  earth  ; 
The  weightiest  chain  becomes  a  toy — 

Oh,  has  thy  smile  no  worth  ? 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 

WHO  bends  beneath  thy  blow  ? 

Who  bows  the  head  to  thee  ? 
His  should  lie  low,  so  low 

There  could  no  refuge  be. 


114  POEMS. 

Within  the  Holy  Tome 

The  words  of  truth  are  writ, 

That  this  is  not  man's  home, 
Earth's  fairest  joys  must  flit. 

Flit  as  the  taper's  light, 
The  perfume  of  the  rose, 

The  songster  of  the  night, 
The  cheek  with  beauty  glows. 


TO  A   STORM. 

O  STORM  !  how  fearful,  yet  how  beautiful — 

The  air  all  still — swift  came  a  darksome  cloud, 

And  all  was  gloom.     The  silence  of  the  tomb 

By  its  shrill  voice  was  broken.     Thunder  dread 

Startling  awoke  the  sleeping — lightning  fierce, 

With  its  livid  glare,  rous'd  dreaming  nature. 

O  storm !  thou  wert  a  welcome  visitant, 

Kindred  unto  me — my  thoughts  a  portion 

And  a  part  of  thee.     Thy  fearfulness  I  love, 

For  thou  wert  fashion'd  by  the  hand  of  God — 

Now,  through  yon  cloud  gleams  the  moon's  silver  light. 

The  storm  is  hush'd — the  tempest's  wrath  appeas'd — 

And  where  it  raged,  beauty  and  peace  now  reign  ; 

Thy  glorious  voice,  O  storm !  came  not  in  vain. 


THE  WALNUT-TKEE. 

THERE'S  a  charm  in  thee,  thou  dear  old  tree, 
With  thy  branches  hoar  and  broad, 

Scene  of  my  play  for  many  a  day 
Did  thy  cooling  shades  afford. 


ror.M-.  115 

Now  autumn's  winds,  thy  leaves  unbind 

And  sing  amid  thy  boughs, 
While  sweet  birds'  throats,  with  warbling  notes, 

Utter  their  heavenly  vows. 

Though  winter  chill,  with  voice  so  shrill 

Shall  bow  thy  graceful  form, 
We'll  love  thee  still,  and  the  sparkling  rill 

Shall  nurse  thee  'mid  the  storm. 

And  if  "  old  time  "  shall  bear  away 

Our  childhood's  dearest  friend, 
We  all  will  weep,  when  in  dust  you  sleep, 

And  sadly  mourn  thine  end. 


DYING  CHILD  TO  HER  MOTHER 

MOTHER,  why  must  I  die — 
Earth's  life  but  just  begun  ? 

Oh,  could  I  live  but  one  short  year 
How  chang'd  the  course  I'd  run. 

Cool,  cool  my  f ever'd  brow ! 

A  fire  is  at  my  heart ! 
Oh,  Father!     Mercy,  mercy  now! 

Let  me  in  peace  depart ! 

I  have  forgotten  Thee,  my  God, 
But  Thou  wilt  sure  forgive. 

Grant  that  I  may  to  learn  Thy  Word 
Only  one  season  live. 

Ha !  they  attack  my  brain  ! 

Those  searing  flames  burn  still — 


116 


POEMS. 

Cool,  cool  my  tongue —  'Tis  vain — • 
But,  oh !  it  is  God's  will. 

Peace,  peace,  my  child,  be  calm, 
Thy  pains  will  soon  be  o'er, 

Oh,  Father,  send  to  her  the  balm, 
A  peaceful  mind  restores. 

A  shriek !  a  sigh !  a  moan ! 

A  gasp,  ah1,  all  is  o'er — 
She's  dead,  nor  dies  she  thus  alone, 

That  mother  is  no  more. 

Is  this  thy  way,  O  life  ? 

The  echo  of  thy  song ! 
The  end  of  beauty,  pride,  and  pomp, 

Oh !  who  could  love  thee  Ions  ? 


TO  MRS.    SUSAN  A.    GIBBES. 

WHENCE  is  the  charm,  with  which  thou  win'st  man's  heart  ? 
To  beauty  he  true  knight  doth  ever  bow, 
But  with  thy  converse  hours  and  days  do  flow 

Fast  as  they  even  with  his  true  love  part. 
Is  it  His  spirit,  whom  on  earth  you  mourn 

Such  sweet  communion  with  his  reft  bride  holds 

That  like  the  babe,  fond  mother,  thou  enfold'st 
In  thy  chaste  bosom  his  dear  image  borne  ? 

Ever  about  thee,  Heaven's  rich  charms  instill, 
Celestial  born,  thy  wondrous  wit  doth  fall 
In  numbers  sweet,  making  ah1  others  pall, 

Sweet,  aye,  more  sweet  than  notes  the  green  woods  fill 
May  the  bright  spirit  doth  attend  thee  here, 
So  live,  that  she  her  parents'  crown  may  wear. 


POEMS.  117 


TO  . 

NAY,  why  so  downcast  ?    Awake,  put  on  your  arms, 

Go  forth  and  war  with  foes  oppose  you  now. 

You  ne'er  have  bent  to  care,  why  will  you  bow, 
So  long  triumphant  over  all  earth's  harms? 

Her  gentle  spirit  calls  to  thee  in  love, 
She,  the  companion  ever  of  the  good  ; 
List,  'tis  her  hand  offers  celestial  food: 

Take  it  and  feast,  thus  feast  those  dwell  above. 
Kemember  thou  His  cross  hast  taken  up, 

The  cross  of  Him  who  did  but  suffering  breathe. 

So  bear  all  cares,  that  thou  may'st  win  the  wreath 
Those  wear  who  follow  Him — 

Here  may'st  thou  sup 

Of  pleasures  purer  than  are  born  of  earth — 

Those  pleasures,  only  of  man's  thoughts,  are  worth. 


TO 


HE  weds  her,  though  he  loves  her  not — 

A  perjured  man  he  stands, 
How  could  he  ever  have  forgot 

Heaven  claims  hearts,  not  hands  ? 

Years  number'd  by  that  wronged  bride 
Have  passed— long,  weary  years — 

As  gazing  on  her  babes,  her  pride, 
In  silence  flow'd  her  tears. 

Another's  heart  to  win  her  strove, 
But  she's  as  chaste  as  fair — 

Like  vulture  over  her  has  flown, 
He  left  not  a  shadow  there. 


118  POEMS. 

His  much  wrong'd  bride  has  pass'd  from  earth, 

His  wealth  has  vanished  too, 
His  babes  they  died — at  a  lonely  hearth 

His  deeds  sball  this  murd'rer  rue. 


TO 


IF  I  have  been  unkind  to  thee, 
You  felt  no  pain  so  great  as  mine. 

He  prizes  most,  whose  toil  't  must  be 
To  make  the  valued  diamond  shine. 

Oft  aches  my  heart,  my  cheek  grows  wet 
With  tears  in  sorrow  suffering  born, 

Yet  like  this  grief,  who'd  e'er  forget 

The  freshening  cloud  o'er  sun  hath  flown. 

The  gentlest  bird  e'er  cheer'd  thy  heart, 
The  softest  breeze  e'er  kiss'd  thy  brow, 

Told  thee  that  joys  of  earth  would  part 
Such  ever  smiling  lover's  vow. 

The  constant  song  would  cease  to  charm, 
The  balmy  breeze  its  fragrance  lose  ; 

The  changeless  tone  no  more  would  warm, 
He  coldly  loves,  in  smiles  e'er  wooes. 


TO  E- 


SHE  says  she  loves  thee — so  do  I, — 

"  Thou,  to  each  and  all  art  given," 
(Gayly  sing  earth,  ocean,  sky) 

"  Dearest  boon  e'er  came  from  Heaven  ; 


POEMS.  119 

"  Peace  and  plenty — joy — be  hers, 

Placid  as  a  summer's  sea, 
When  the  breeze  of  even  stirs, 
Naught  from  its  sweet  harmony  ; 

"  Be  her  days,  her  hours,  minutes — 
Slumbers  soft  her  eyelids  close, 
Till  at  dawn  the  songs  of  linnets 
Wake  her  from  her  sweet  repose. 

"  Spirit  from  the  courts  of  Heaven, 

Mirror  of  a  spotless  life, 
Essence  to  the  dew-drop  given, 
Free  from  sorrow,  sin,  or  strife." 

Such  art  thou,  fond,  dearest  Lissy, 

Polar  star  to  me  away, 
Ever  shall  this  heart  reflect  thee, 

As  the  sea  that  guardian  ray. 

Oh,  be  thou  about  me  ever, 

Hover  o'er  me  in  my  sleep, 
From  thy  "  Own  Home  "  wander  never, 

O'er  my  acts  strict  vigils  keep. 


TO 


OH,  can  it  be,  that  I  who've  wept  thee  ill, 
Mourn'd  o'er  thee  as  forever  lost  to  me, 

Should  e'en  one  moment  of  thy  dear  hours  fill 
With  saddest,  weightiest  melancholy. 

Forgive  me,  oh,  forgive  me — do  I  ask, 

Yet  ask  but  to  implore  the  boon  once  more. 


120    '  POEMS. 

Oh,  it  is  but  a  thankless,  endless  task 

To  pardon  oft — as  I  do  oft  implore. 
With  sad  and  heavy  heart  I  think  o'er  days 

Given  to  us  to  be  but  scenes  of  mirth, 
Made  by  my  wanton,  wilful,  heartless  ways, 

Of  melancholy  thoughts  the  seeds,  the  birth. 
Awak'd  as  from  a  long  and  mournful  dream 

That  past,  I  see,  cloth 'd  in  a  sombre  hue — 
While  far  before  thee,  brightly  shines  a  beam 

Fill'd  with  the  promise  of  rich  joys  to  you. 
That  dark  and  gloomy  past  's  a  golden  land, 

Rich  in  its  fruitful  harvests  unto  both, 
Where  we,  dear  love,  are  walking  hand  in  hand 

In  virtue's  ways  and  lovely  works  of  truth. 
I  oft  in  sadness  think,  and  thinking,  weep 

So  much  of  evil  in  my  nature  is, 
That  I  in  grief  may  all  thy  dear  hours  steep, 

Those  hours  which  should  be  but  glad  hours  of  bliss. 
I  know  not  why,  that  in  my  latter  days 

The  moaning  night-bird  haunts  me  with  his  song. 
Once  ever  glad  and  joyous  were  my  ways, 

Once  sang  for  me  the  lark  the  whole  day  long. 
Oh,  intercede  for  me  at  that  High  seat — 

Where  all  we  ask  as  surely  we  shall  find, 
That  you  hereafter  may  with  sweet  smiles  greet 

Him  who  to  this  world  you  alone  did  bind. 


TO 


WHEEE  art  thou,  my  beloved  one  ? 

Gone,  gone  for  aye,  from  me  ? 
May  I  no  longer  hear  thy  voice, 

Or  matchless  beauty  see  ? 


12  L 


No  longer  shall  the  clear  blue  sky 

Be  dear  and  lov'd  by  me; 
The  day  is  dark  and  gloomy  now, 

For  all  is  night  I  see. 

But  highly  do  I  prize  the  stars, 
Which  loving  look  on  thee  ; 

And  her  whose  image  wears  thy  smile 
Yon  crescent  shines  on  me. 


"THE  DEATH  BLAST." 

IT  comes  from  the  north, 

In  its  raiment  of  ice; 
It  comes  from  the  south, 

In  its  garb  beyond  price. 

It  comes  from  the  east, 

And  it  comes  from  the  west, 

It  comes  e'er  the  same; 
For  'tis  "death's"  at  the  best. 

Lo !  that  charger  of  blood, 
'Tis  death's  warrior  flies, 

To  the  slaughter  of  thousands; 
Hark,  hark  ye,  the  cries 

Of  the  mothers,  the  babes, 

The  sires,  the  sons, 
As  they  fall  'neath  his  blow 

"Where  his  blood  course  he  runs. 

Lo,  the  shriek  on  the  gale, 
The  moan  on  the  breeze, 


122  POEJTS. 


The  curse  on  the  tempest — 
Naught,  naught  can  appease. 

For  revengeful  he  rides, 

Like  the  storm  o'er  the  billow, 

Spares  nor  maiden  nor  bride, 
Hark  his  hillo,  his  hillo ! 

Now,  a  whispering  comes, 
'Tis  a  guilty  heart's  sorrow, 

He  heeds  not  its  call, 
It  must  wait  till  the  morrow. 

Like  the  cry  of  the  hounds 

When  they  rush  on  in  madness, 

Death's  yell  deepest  wounds 

Those  who'd  fly  from  their  sadness. 

Then  to  shouts  of  glad  tidings 

For  victories  o'er, 
Are  chang'd  the  soul's  wailing, 

Leaving  earth's  darksome  shore. 


TO  JULIA  S. 

THERE'S  a  spell  in  thy  dark  eye,  fair  one, 
A  light  in  thy  beaming  smile ; 

Flashes  like  wave  where  the  golden  sun 
In  sport  its  last  hours  beguiles. 

There's  a  grace  in  every  motion, 
A  charm  in  every  thought ; 


POEMS.  123 

But  ah !  Avho  knows  this  heart's  emotion, 
So  dearly,  so  sadly  bought  ? 

Thou  art  flown  with  the  storied  past, 

Whose  visions  around  me  rise, 
Oh,  give  me  one  look,  one  look  ere  my  last 

From  those  too  well  remember' d  eyes. 


ON  OUK  MAEY. 

FEB.  6,  1837. 

HUSH,  hush,  tread  softly  here, 

It  is  my  babe  here  sleeps; 
Dry,  dry  that  foolish  tear, 

Who  e'er  for  angel  weeps  ? 

Strew,  strew  those  fragrant  flowers 
O'er  the  snow-white  garb  earth  wears, 

The  handiwork  of  the  virgin  showers 
Which  could  not  restrain  their  tears. 

Raise  high  your  voice  in  praise, 

Till  it  ascends  to  Heaven; 
Unite  with  her  in  joyful  lays, 

In  those  high  courts  are  given. 


TO 


I  LOV'D  thee  once,  I  lov'd  thee  well, 
All  dearly  bought,  ah  fatal  spell, 
Courted  you  were,  all  gay  and  bright, 
But  won,  where  is  that  lov'd  eye's  light  ? 


124  POEMS. 

Whither  has  flown  the  joy  joyful  smile, 
The  laugh  so  many  hours  beguil'd  ; 
The  winsome  ways  that  won  my  heart, 
Those  foes  of  man,  fair  maiden's  ails  ? 

All,  all  are  gone,  no  light  is  there, 
Those  orbs  are  dark,  that  raven  hair, 
That  smiling  lip,  that  roseate  cheek, 
That  brow  that  seeni'd  almost  to  speak. 

Flown  with  the  knell  of  all  earth's  joys, 
Time,  cruel  time,  e'en  love  destroys, 
I  thought  thee  one  beyond  his  touch, 
But  none  escape,  no,  not  e'en  such. 


ON    LEAVING    MY   COUNTEY   HOME   FOE   CITY 
LABOR 

1850. 

ONE  long  last  kiss,  my  darling  boys, 

For  I  must  hasten  far  away 
And  seek  to  win  those  gilded  toys, 

The  light  and  glory  of  this  day. 

Yes,  I  must  leave  my  darling  babes 
And  bravely  breasting  every  storm, 

Toil  with  earth's  ever  restless  slaves, 
And  worship  lucre's  filthy  form. 

Ah !  why  is  nature  by  our  God  enrobed 

In  beauties  brighter  than  in  diamond  gleams, 

Too  weak  to  bind  me,  where  each  hour  unfolds 
Glories  far  mightier  than  the  miser  dreams. 


POEMS.  125 

Need  bids  me  leave  my  native  hills, 

My  darling  babes,  a  fond  farewell. 
I  seek  your  good.     Heaven  guard  from  ills; 

How  fond  my  love,  these  tears  best  tell. 

Cling  ye  to  her,  your  mother  dear, 
Who  bids  me  go  with  swelling  heart, 

Tho'  bright  her  eye,  her  brow  so  clear, 
While  choosing  thus  the  wiser  part. 


"THE  FKOLICSOME  PAKSON." 
BY  "DELILAH'S  AVENGEB." 

I  AM  a  jolly  Britisher.     I  came  from  Fatherland, 

To  make  a  mighty  fortune,  I  thought  I'd  turn  my  hand; 

I  tried  a  little  farming,  but  found  it  would  not  do, 

So  I  turned  all  may  attention  to  "  Cock-a-doodle-do." 

I  set  just  twenty  eggs,  under  a  great  big  hen 

That  I  had  shut  up  nicely,  in  a  little  lattice  pen, 

But  out  of  the  whole  twenty,  I  got  but  half  all  told, 

For  the  lazy,  stupid  hen  left  half  out  in  the  cold 

I  tried  a  little  painting,  but  the  likeness  was  so  true, 

You  could  not  tell,  to  save  you,  if  it  was  I  or  you. 

I  tried  a  little  carving,  and  there  I  hit  the  nail: 

Says  I,  "Now,  Brother  Bluster,  you  surely  cannot  fail." 

I  made  a  set  of  chairs,  such  chairs  you  never  see, 

They  were  made  after  a  pattern  my  daddy  left  to  me; 

It  was  a  very  ancient  chair — Graudsire  Adam  used 

For  all  his  little  babies,  and  it  was  much  abused. 

I  took  it  all  to  pieces,  and  put  it  up  anew 

With  twine,  and  pins,  and  thread,  and  a  little  bit  of  glue. 

And  when  I  had  them  finished,  I  tell  you  I  was  proud, 

I  called  my  neighbors  in,  and  showed  them  to  the  crowd. 


126  POEMS. 

I  thought  I  had  a  fortune,  that  I  would  reach  renown, 

Says  I:  I'll  make  my  pile  in  this  here  little  town. 

But  down  sat  old  friend  Jones,  of  just  three  hundred 

pound, 

Oh !  my,  in  what  a  hurry  he  laid  upon  the  ground, 
'Twas  in  my  chair  he  sat — just  inside  the  front-door, 
And  all  the  village  laughed,  to  see  him  sprawling  on  the 

floor. 

Says  I,  "  By  Jolly  " — up  I  jumped  just  like  a  flying  kite. 
I  didn't  know  if  I  should  laugh — I  thought  I'd  like  to 

fight. 
But  you  see  my  daddy  was  a  parson,  and  he  was  used  to 

say 

'Twas  safest  ne'er  to  fight,  "but  always  run  away; 
For  it  might  be  I'd  get  licked,  as  I  saw  my  "  Sky-and-Tan," 
When  he  ran  out  into  the  street  and  chased  a  little  man. 
So  I  thought  I'd  keep  my  temper,  and  only  "  bark  it  out," 
Or  else  I  might  get  whipped  and  then  "  go  up  the  spout." 
So  what  to  do  I  did  not  know  to  make  the  kettle  boil, 
For  to  keep  my  darling  "Duckie" — I  then  resolved  to 

toil 

One  day  as  Duck  and  I  were  on  our  way  to  church, 

I  thought  the  "  boys  a  laying  round,"  would  be  left  in  the 

lurch 

If  something  to  amuse  them  on  the  Sabbath  was  not  done, 
Either  in  the  way  of  "  biz  " — or  in  the  way  of  fun. 
So  early  the  next  morning  I  hastened  into  "  town," 
To  see  a  mighty  bishop,  of  credit  and  renown — 
"  Good-morning,  '  Mr.  Bishop ' — I  am  a  nice  young  man, 
I've  come  clean  from  the  country,  to  see  you  if  I  can. 
There  are  a  lot  of  fellows,  a  hanging  all  about, 
Upon  the  Sabbath  morning — they'll  all  hang,  I've  no  doubt, 
If  something  is  not  done  to  make  them  mend  their  ways; 
So  I  want  you  just  to  show  me  how  a  good  man  prays — 


•  POEMS.  127 

And  then  if  you'll  just  give  me  an  order  to  go  preach, 
I'll  call  them  in  and  try,  how  these  loafers  I  can  teach." 
He  gave  it  and  I  went,  and  there  I  took  my  stand, 
A  valley  in  the  mountains,  and  I  looked  o'er  all  the  land; 
I  bade  them  all  come  to  me,  from  hours  of  twelve  to  four, 
For  my  church  was  just  the  next  unto  the  Methodist's 

door. 

I  calculated  as  the  crowd  all  came  out  of  that, 
I'd  have  the  whole  concern  just  so  nice  and  pat. 
They  came,  I  preached  of  Heaven,  with  a  little  bit  of  Hell, 
Maybe  they  didn't  like  it — I  bet  you  it  did  tell. 
I  soon  was  then  invited  to  come  to  Brother  Full, 
The  Presbyterians  were  weak — and  just  give  him  a  pull. 
This  card  it  proved  a  trump — the  blue-lights  liked  me  much, 
And  said  they  only  wished  their  church  had  a  such. 
The  Methodists  grew  jealous — so  I  resolved  to  show 
I  didn't  believe  that  one  church  would  ever  make  it  go, 
So  I  went  to  a  "  quarterly  meeting  " — maybe  I  didn't  talk, 
I  made  their  hairs  stand  on  end,  when  they  saw  the  Devil 

walk. 

They  invited  me  to  serve  again,  and  come  to  a  Love  Feast — • 
Oh,  didn't  Duckie  storm  at  this — "  Jist  the  way  with  all 

you  priests, 
The  gals  is  all  you're  arter — I  seen  you  peeking  at  their 

feets — 
Then  looking  right  straight  in  their  eyes,  as  they  walked 

down  the  streets." 

Oh !  law !  what  could  I  do— but  to  the  feast  I  went, 
Oh!  there,  there,  there  was  love  unto  my  heart's  con 
tent 

The  priest,  old  Father  Eiley — he  heard  of  my  great  fame, 
He  said  "  he  didn't  know — but  his  flock  grew  very  tame." 
/  told  him  7  would  help  him — just  a  little  piece. 
I  went  down  and  talked,  but  he  took  all  the  grease 


128  POEMS.  * 

As  I  and  Duck  must  live,  and  Dobbin  must  have  his  hay, 

I  found  the  Romish  Church  was  not  the  place  to  stay 

So  I  resolved  to  keep  the  'Piscopalian  walk — 

But  now  you  better  believe,  I  heard  the  strangest  talk. 

My  people — how  I  loved  the   dear,  kind,  good,  sweet 

souls ! — 
Said,  "  they  thought  the  Parson  should  attend  to  his  own 

folds." 
I  asked  them  for  some  stamps — they  laughed  right  in  my 

face — 
They  answered — "  that  the  swift,  they  heard,  always  won 

the  race  ; 

That  as  I  had  been  riding  all  around  the  course, 
They  thought  that  I  must  surely  be  the  real  winning  horse." 
I  told  them  it  was  true,  that  I  ahead  came  in, 
But  for  all  that,  it  did  not  bring  Duck  and  I  "the  tin." 
I  prayed,  I  preached — I  sang  and  preached  again, 
I  found — oh,  the  hard-hearted  curs — that  it  was  all  in  vain. 
So  with  a  heavy  heart,  I  sent  my  resignation. 
I  didn't  believe  they'd  take  it,  but  oh,  my  consternation! 
I  got  a  little  note,  all  writ  on  scented  paper, 
That   the   next   Sabbath-day  they'd   just   put    out  "my 

taper." 

I  told  them,  "  Very  well,  I'd  give  them  my  last  sermon." 
I  bet  you  Duck  and  I  sat  down,  and  if  we  didn't  write 

one — 

The  church  was  full  of  Dutch,  of  Romans,  Blue-lights,  all 
Of    every   name,   with   Methodists — but   Tiscopals  was 

small — 

I  told  them,  they  were  safe,  that  they  should  have  salvation. 
Riches  and  joys  forevermore,  but  'Piscopals — damnation; 
That  this  was  a  big  country,  that  I  was  a  Johnny  Bull — 
That  I'd  be  hanged  but  I  would  preach,  if  the  church  was 

empty  or  full — 


POEMS.  120 

That  I  had  thought  the  Old  Boy  had  lived  under  the 

ground, 
But  now  I  knew  'mong  Tiscopals  was  the  place  where 

he  was  found. 


ZION  MEETIN'-'OUSE. 

SAEMONT  BY  OLE  BEUDDEE  ABEAM,  CHABLESTON,  S.  C., 
MARCH,  1879. 

DAEKIES  all,  young  and  old, 
Now  har  de  lesson  I  bill  unfold. 
Old  Ponipey's  dead — all  must  die, 
Stop  wringing  yere  hands — dun't  yere  cry. 
Old  Pompey,  I  say,  died  to-day, 
He's  gone,  I  s'pose,  de  same  ole  way. 
Now,  darkies,  hear,  ob  all  degree, 
And  what  he's  been  done  and  I'll  do,  you  see. 
Dnr  was  a  garden  in  olden  times, 
Whar  Adam  and  Ebe  had  to  walk  der  lines, 
Maybe  you've  hern  how  de  Moccasin,  he 
Stole  behin'  an  old  apple-tree  ; 
Adam,  he'd  gwine  to  catch  some  eels, 
So  he's  out  ob  de  way,  an'  ole  Moccasin  feels 
Roun'  Mrs.  Adam,  and  wants  her  to  gwine 
Up  into  dat  tree,  and  shake  de  limbs, 
For  he  can't  climb,  with  his  old  stump  tail, 
And  he  wun't  try— for  maybe  he'd  fail. 
A  thing  what's  forbid — be  sure  we  does, 
So  quick  as  a  wink,  up  high  she  goes. 
*'  Shake  away  " — "  shake  away  " — down  they  fall 

Apples  and  branches,  Mrs.  Adam  and  all. 
"  Hullo,"  said  a  voice — "  whar  are  you,  Ebe  ?  " 
"  Here,  Adam/'  said  she,  "  wid  ole  Moccasin's  lebe, 


130  POE^TS. 

I  jist  flew'd  up  to  de  top  ob  dis  tree, 
Now  here's  de  apples,  what  beauties  you  see." 
"  You  naughty  gal — ye  sha'n't  eat  dat  fruit, 
If  yer  do,  I'll  gie  yer  my  fut" — 
'Twas  a  great  big  heel,  and  a  great  big  toe, 
Whareber  it  hit,  it  was  bound  to  go. 
But  eat  she  did,  as  gals  will  do, 
Took  a  great  big  bite,  and  Adam  too; 
For  she  tole  him  it  was  the  nicest  thing 
That  eber  was  set  before  a  king.  ... 
Out  ob  de  garden  dey  was  hustled  straight 
Into  de  wilderness — locked  de  gate — 
Den  dey  was  cold,  wide  de  wind  an'  de  shame, 
Dey  made  leaf-clothes,  eat  fish,  flesh,  and  game. 
Soon  little  Cain  come  trottin'  along, 
An'  Abel  soon  arter — de  same  ole  song; 
And  as  years  cum  and  ages  flew, 
De  more  der  was — de  more  dey  grew; 
But  de  boys  hab  a  fight,  how  de  wool  flew; 
But  dun't  yer  know,  'twould  never  do. 
Well,  Abel  died,  just  as  Pompey  too. 
Adam  was  leader  ob  all  you  crew. 
Poinpey  was  like  him,  jest  his  tee; 
In  tellin'  ob  Adam,  I'se  tellin'  ob  he. 
A  rare  old  fellow — fourscore  and  ten, 
I  know'd  it,  breddren,  by  our  ole  hen, 
For  she  hatched  out,  when  Pomp  cum  to  town, 
I  'members  it  well,  for  ob  great  renown 
Was  ole  Aunt  Dinah — a  darter  true 
Ob  Adam  aud  Ebe,  and  all  dere  crew. 
I  tell  you  what  ole  Pompey  was  like, 
Like  all  his  kind,  be  dey  black  o'  white, 
Mens  o'  womens—  chillen  o'  babes, 
AH  ob  "  ole  Mock  "  dey  be  de  slabes; 


POEMS.  131 

Dey  may  sing,  ami  may  dance,  may  talk,  may  preach, 
But  dey  neLer  will  take  what's  out  ob  dere  reach. 


TO  GENERAL  GRANT. 

MT.  MCGREGOR,  JULY  '  2,  1885. 

THE  Sumter  shot  was  heard,  the  Northern  heart  on  fire 

From  every  valley,  hill,  and  mount,  rushed  forth  our  sons, 
our  sires. 

Mothers  and  maidens  urged  them  on,  with  smiles  they 
forward  cheered. 

Alone,  in  silence  flowed  their  tears,  heart-riven,  while  thus 
they  dared. 

Long  weary  days,  weeks,  months,  aye,  darksome  years 

Came  fast  and  fleeting,  robed  in  grief  and  tears. 

Defeat  and  death,  and  all  their  bloody  train: 

Chief  after  chief  was  tried,  but  still  in  vain; 

Till  He  who  ever  pities  the  shorn  lamb, 

Raised  one,  our  Grant,  steadfast,  brave,  and  calm; 

Patient  in  all  things,  ever  firm  and  true, 

A  wondrous  change  was  wrought,  our  country  born  anew. 

Then  none  but  he  could  hold  the  helm  of  State, 

In  each  new  duty  Grant  was  proved  more  great. 

The  wide  world  hailed  him;  prostrate  at  his  feet 

All  nations  fell,  eager  they  sought  to  greet 

The  master  spirit  of  the  age  who  bore 

The  bark  of  Freedom  to  oppressed's  shore. 

On  Mount  McGregor's  heights,  now  famous  for  all  time, 

Soothed  by  tender  care  of  those  most  dear,  a  scene  sub 
lime; 

He  so  generous,  meek,  so  gentle,  kind,  yet  firm, 

The  wide  world's  conqueror  bows  to  the  great  "1  am"; 


132  POEMS. 

Succumbs  to  ills  no  human  tongue  can  tell 

The  bitterest  trials  ever  man  befel; 

Yet  e'en  in  this  he  hears  his  Master's  voice 

Of  love,  which  leads  him  to  rejoice. 

Crowned  by  his  griefs  more  royally  than  by  gems, 

Decked  his  victorious  brow;  the  wide  world's  realms 

Are  but  as  baubles,  as  he  waits  the  call, 

Will  yet  declare  him  "  Victor  over  all." 


SAKATOGA. 
JULY  15,  1885. 

THREESCORE  years  past,  a  boy,  I  coursed  your  fields 

Chasing  butterflies  and  bees,  culling  flowers,  their  yield; 

In  fancy  painting  what  you  yet  might  be, 

But  never  dreaming  such  rare  sights  to  see. 

Where  now  your  palaces  crown  your  verdant  hills, 

Or  homes  of  splendor  line  your  pearly  rills, 

A  simple  cottage  greeted  my  fond  eye; 

Home  of  those  loved  best,  your  summer  sky, 

With  its  soft  air  brought  roses  to  the  cheek 

Of  her  so  fondly  prized;  in  soul  so  strong,  in  health  so 

weak; 
Strength  and  good  cheer  to  him,  honored  only  the  pure, 

the  good; 

His  God  revered,  and  next  his  sire  so  loved. 
Sisters  sweet  and  gentle,  ambrosial  made  the  scene; 
Brothers  proud,  gallant,  in  devotion  crowned  "  our  queen." 
So  named  by  sire,  as  his  loved  deference  shown, 
Taught  all  to  bow  to  her,  decked  with  affection's  crown. 
From  her  we  learned  to  rule  by  works  of  love, 
From  him,  worthy  by  virtues  of  our  Master  prove, 


POEMS.  133 

By  all  was  true  and  noble  and  sincere; 

None  great,  but  good;  all  not,  "beware." 

By  Eandolph  of  Roanoke,  here  was  I  caressed; 

Here  Lafayette,  blessing  with  kind  hand,  pressed 

The  head  of  scion  of  him,  his  pride. 

In  camp  and  council — Torktown,  side  by  side, 

Here  have  I  heard  the  charming  voice  of  Clay; 

While  Webster,  gilded  with  prophetic  lay, 

The  future  of  our  land,  so  great  this  day 

That  all  the  world  their  tributes  to  her  lay 

In  honor,  not  in  trembling  at  her  feet, 

Memories  of  those  we  love  in  reverence  greet. 

Here  Lincoln  with  Moses'  prophetic  lore, 

Pictured  in  eloquence  all  yet  in  store, 

For  such  their  country's  faithful  champions  prove; 

From  him  I  lived  to  earn  confiding  love. 

Honored  and  trusted  by  Seward,  Stanton,  Chase; 

Favored  by  Grant,  the  first  of  that  great  race, 

Called  into  service  in  our  Master's  cause, 

Who  now  in  heaviest  hours  with  illumined  face, 

Gilds  with  its  brightest  hues  this  favored  place. 

With  all  my  faults,  my  failings,  and  my  flaws, 

Called  into  service  in  our  Master's  cause. 

Teaching  in  forests,  preaching  in  His  courts; 

Telling  how  dearly  all  our  gifts  were  bought. 

I  trust  in  duty  to  those  dear  ones  gone 

And  now  are  serving  round  our  Father's  throne, 

That  teachings  pure  were  never  lost,  but  bore 

Me  fruits  I  feast  on — richer,  I  trust,  in  store. 


PRESS  NOTICES. 


Prom  the  Boston  Traveller. 

"  CROMWELL  :  A  Tragedy  in  Five  Acts.  By  the  author  of 
'  Thomas  A'Becket,'  etc.  Pamph.  12mo,  pp.  124.  New  York : 
Dick  &  Fitzgerald.  A  noble  work,  and  nobly  planned  and  written. 
It  proceeds  on  a  just  conception  of  Cromwell's  character  and  actions, 
which  alone  ought  to  secure  for  it  a  favorable  reception  from  intel 
ligent  readers,  who  must  be  tired  of  having  the  foremost  man  of  all 
the  English  world  drawn  as  a  compound  of  ruffian  and  hypocrite, 
when  there  was  neither  hypocrisy  nor  ruffianism  in  his  nature. 
Many  passages  in  the  drama  show  good  powers  of  versification,  and 
a  high  poetic  spirit ;  and  the  dramatic  faculty  of  the  author  is  ap 
parent  throughout  his  work.  But  why  does  he  not  devote  himself 
to  historical  composition  ?  In  that  he  would  excel,  and  in  a  time, 
too,  as  remarkable  for  its  historical  productions,  their  weightiness 
and  variety,  as  any  that  has  been  known  since  the  Augustan  age. 

"Our  author  has  done  in  the  dramatic  form  what  Mr.  Herbert 
did  in  the  romantic  form,  but  he  is  hampered  by  the  very  form  he 
has  adopted  to  present  his  hero's  career  and  character  in  accordance 
with  the  well-established  facts  of  historical  criticism,  which  give  to 
Cromwell  one  of  the  very  highest  places  in  the  roll  of  great  men. 
Even  those  who  agree  with  Mr.  Bissett,  who  has  written  the  history 
of  the  English  Commonwealth  so  well,  must  admit,  that,  after  aH 
proper  deductions  have  been  made,  there  was  much  that  was  grand 
and  majestic  in  the  nature  of  Cromwell,  that  he  was  worthy  of  a 
crown,  and  that,  as  matters  stood  in  1654,  it  would  have  been  wise 
in  the  English  people  had  they  placed  an  imperial  crown  on  his 
head,  so  that  a  Cromwellian  dynasty  might  have  been  established, 
and  which  would  have  ruled  till  this  clay,  and  far  into  the  future. 
Taking  the  higher,  and  therefore  the  sounder,  view  of  the  Lord 
Protector's  character,  our  dramatist  follows  him  throughout  his 
public  life,  from  1642,  after  he  began  to  distinguish  himself  in 


PRESS    NOTICES. 


Parliament,  to  the  day  when  his  great  soul  left  the  earth,  a  tempest 
of  wind  and  rain  that  occurred  at  the  time  being  connected  in  the 
public  mind  with  his  death." 


From  (he  N.  Y.  Herald. 

"Thomas  A'Becket,  a  tragedy  in  five  acts,  is  just  published  in 
New  York  City  by  Dick  &  Fitzgerald.  It  is  founded  on  the  eccle 
siastical  assumptions  and  violent  death  of  the  man  whose  name  it 
bears.  In  the  main  true  to  history,  with  touching  allusions  to  Fair 
Rosamond,  it  introduces  scenes  of  romance,  love,  and  adventure. 
The  style  of  the  play  is  sprightly  and  often  elegant.  The  nature  of 
the  subject,  and  the  chaste  and  beautiful  manner  in  which  it  is  pre 
sented,  will  commend  it  to  favor  with  all  who  appreciate  artistic 
literature  of  this  description,  and  will  make  it  popular  in  exhibition 
on  the  stage.  It  will  soon  be  produced  at  one  of  the  leading  theatres 
in  that  city." 

From  the  Evening  Post. 

"  It  is  founded  on  the  ecclesiastical  assumptions  and  violent  death 
of  the  man  whose  name  it  bears.  The  author  has  availed  himself 
of  this  remarkable  chapter  of  English  history  to  make  his  play  the 
vehicle  of  a  rapid  series  of  events,  and  to  give  it  the  interest  which 
arises  from  crowded  action." 


From  the  New-  Yorker. 

"  One  of  the  best  recent  dramatic  productions  of  American  origin. 
The  historical  period  has  been  evidently  studied  with  care,  the  char 
acters  are  clearly  marked  and  well  distributed,  the  action  is  decided 
and  the  language  emphatic  and  not  rarely  high-toned  and  elegant. 
The  author  may  therefore  justly  take  an  honorable  place  in  the  roll 
of  American  tragic  writers." 


From  the  N.  Y.  Times. 
"  Some  of  the  scenes  arc  exceedingly  powerful." 


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